#tarantulas x reader

• Venting softly as he hesitates, he strains to listen for the sound of rotors. For boots on the ground. He’d alternated running on his peds and picking his way with his extra only touching the trunks of trees. Trying to disguise his passage as best he could. Had doubled back a few times, changing direction randomly. Isn’t sure that it’s enough, though. Adjusting you against his chassis, a hand smooths up your spine. There’s very little cover here, human houses sporadically appearing in the dark as he keeps moving, unsure what he’s looking for until he sees it.

• Your legs are asleep and when he finally swings you down onto your feet on a weathered porch with boards that creak under your weight, you nearly fall. And even though he’s done all the work, you’re exhausted. “Where are we?” You ask, wincing at how raspy your voice is. The only times he’s stopped at all were to let you awkwardly relieve yourself in the woods as he’d stalked restlessly nearby, looking for threats. One of his extra limbs slides against your thigh as he leans a hand on the wall to look in a dirty, dark window and you can hear him venting. ‘Somewhere safe. No one’s been here in a long time,’ he murmurs, another limb fishing a warm bottle of water out of the bag he’s carrying and you take it, twisting it open to drink. ‘Stay here while I check the area,’ he adds, setting the bag down beside you. Taking off with that eerie speed he usually goes to such length to hide.

• Circling the abandoned house in a slow spiral, he can’t pick up any human scents. Any signs that anyone has been here in a long time. Satisfied, he returns to you and tries the door. Popping the entire thing off the hinges when it won’t open, he sets it aside to fix later and turns toward you. Trying to not remember those humans grabbing you, frightening you. Trying to take you. Biolights flaring, he turns sideways using all his limbs to pull himself inside. No electricity, but he can see well enough in the dark. You, though? You’ll be dependent on him.

• “Careful,” he says a clawed hand reaching for you as another limb hooks against the bag and drags it across the threshold. Grasping his hand, you step closer and he curls an arm around you to pick you up again as he turns around. Can’t see much except his visor and his biolights as he carries you around the old house and you breathe through your mouth at the musty smell of mold and mice. And he looks down in question when you huff out a little, tired laugh. “What is it?” He asks, moving around the space warily, his extra limbs up aggressively. ‘When a couple gets married, it’s traditional for one partner to carry the other over the threshold of their new home,’ you say with a little shrug as his head tips before he looks back at the open door. Whatever he thinks of that useless human fact, he doesn’t share, only rumbling softly as you lay your head against his shoulder.

• Turning at the sound of his peds, your feet leave the ground when he hooks his arm around you, one of his extra limbs taking your bag from you as he adds more food and water to it and starts grabbing his tools and his holomatter projector. “Put me down. I can help carry stuff,” you say and he grunts something in his own language, distracted and still too wound up to realize you can’t understand him as he’s grabbing with his extra limbs. Motions frantic. Making you guess more of those guys are probably on the way. That he’s going to have to abandon the tomb and that leaves a dull ache of loss humming through you. Realizing you’d started thinking of the place as home as crazy as it is.

• Too much to carry. Too much Cybertronian tech he refuses to let Ghost have. Because they’ll weaponize it against his own people. Growling as he backs out of the tomb, he lowers you onto the grass outside as his plating lifts, scanning for threats again. Then he’s heading back inside, rigging his inventions to blow. So much work just gone. Some of it he’s not sure he can even replicate again. Anger lifting through him, he’s hurrying back outside into the afternoon sun and scooping you up. Running into the woods with you.

• Arms around his neck as he streaks through the trees, you hear a boom that pops your ears and somehow know it was the tomb. That he’s destroyed everything to keep it out of human hands. “I’m sorry,” you whisper and he slows, head tipping up as he steps closer to a tree and you hear the thump of rotors. See the shape of a copter flying low over the trees overhead. Hunting him. ‘I should have moved us sooner,’ he murmurs, his visor dimming as he waits for the chopper to move on. ‘They were bound to find us eventually.’ That us sinks into you and unravels a knot of worry you hadn’t even been aware of. Because you’re human and so were the Nest agents that just took away his home. Your home.

• Adjusting you against his body, he starts moving again. Running away with you and what he’d managed to grab with no real destination in mind. Had chosen the tomb because it was quiet and humans avoided the area, but he’d known he couldn’t stay there indefinitely. Had gotten distracted though when he’d found you. His priorities had shifted. “They’re my people,” you mumble, sounding miserable and he brushes his mandibles against your temple. ‘It could have just as easily been mine. I’m considered a deserter,’ he soothes, trying to figure out which direction to go. Somewhere where they’ll stop chasing him and just let him be.

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• “We already have so much in common. I adore arson,” he croons, venting as his mandibles tease your hair. Really hadn’t realized how soft and warm humans were and he’s enjoying the way you fit against him. Holding you against himself, he brushes his jaw against your temple and croons softly. Trying to calm you down. Aren’t humans social? You should like being held then. Should be comforted by it. Knows he is. Has been lonely for a while now.

• “What are you doing?” You ask shakily and he chuckles, that soft chittering of his so darn creepy. ‘Familiarizing you with my scent so you accept me,’ he croons and you flush. ‘Is it working?’ Planting a hand on his chassis, you try to push away and it’s a pleasant surprise when he allows it. “I’m sure you’re a very nice spider monster-” And he cuts you off with a sharp laugh. ‘Tarantulas. My name. Not spider monster.’ Staring at him as his head tips, you make the mistake of focusing on those mandibles. On the sharp denta behind them. Nightmare fuel. Your future husband if he has his way.

• “Right. Tarantulas,” you say as he touches a servo to your bottom lip to make you rear back. Amused as you grab his wrist and push it away from yourself, he rumbles. “I’m sure you’d be a wonderful husband, but I’m not really looking for a spouse right now.” You really are adorable. Feels you go rigid when he leans down to brush his mandibles against your forehead, scenting.

• “I want to feed you,” he says, standing and hauling you with him. “What is it you humans like to eat?” Squirming as you dangle facedown against his side, an arm hooked around you, you’re gifted with a view of his weird, clawed peds as he walks around. And you twitch when he snares a can with one of his extra limbs and dangles it an inch from your nose. ‘That’s cat food. To feed cats,’ you manage weakly. “Ah. I thought maybe it was made from them,” he growls and you start hysterically giggling because this can’t be real.

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• And you stare at Tarantulas hanging on the side of the building mass displaced already, his head tilting as he stares at you. You’re not nearly awake enough for this or to deal with him, but you still unlock the door and open it, letting the shoe drop. Shivering in the cold, night air, you back up as he twists sideways slightly his extra limbs reaching in to hook against the door frame while he squeezes in and you frown at him. “What time is it?” You mumble as he slowly straightens to tower over you and looks around your apartment. Why did you let him in? You’re not entirely sure, but sometimes, rarely, you feel bad for him. Because he just seems so lonely. Batshit crazy, but lonely, too.

• Doesn’t know what to say now that he’s here. How to explain that he had nightmares of being trapped again. That he couldn’t stand to be alone. And you’re just frowning up at him as he leans and his head thumps against your shoulder to make you stagger slightly. Just needs this. Something to anchor him in reality so the madness is kept at bay. Needs to feel another field brush against his. To remind him that he’s not still there. He’s free. “You okay, Spider-Man?” You ask and he vents, extra limbs shifting restlessly.

• “Mesothulas,” he says, head still against your shoulder as he leans on you. “I don’t want to be alone.” And he sounds so real right now. Completely different from his maniacal chuckling or taunting inappropriateness. Sighing, you reach up to awkwardly pat him on the back, the plush fluff on his shoulders brushing against your arm as he vents. Shivering as you try to figure out what to do with a giant, depressed spider alien, one of his extra limbs stretches out to shut your balcony door. Because apparently he’s staying the night. ‘Alright,’ you tiredly groan, trying to back away toward your bed and he grabs the hem of your sleep shirt in his servos, head still against you as he follows. Right now, he’s more lost boy than lunatic, though. You’ve never seen this Tarantulas.

• Amusing himself by staying in his altmode since it makes so many of the humans uncomfortable, he eats his energon goodie. Noticing a human staring at him and making a face, he launches himself off of you and onto the table. Taking a savage delight in the human screeching and tipping their chair over to fall hard in their panic to get away. “Tarantulas,” you hiss, reaching to grab him and pull him back to you. “Sorry! He’s really sorry about that!”

• “I’m not,” he counters, still chuckling as he keeps eating. And you grimace when your coworker struggles back into their feet, face flushed as they reach for their bot and walk away in a huff. “More for me,” he croons, webbing another treat. ‘You’re not making any friends acting like that,’ you mumble as he slowly turns on his spidery legs in a circle to look up at your remaining coworker.

• “Friends,” he echoes, venting when you reach to drag him across the table to you before he can try to drive off the other human. Extra limbs tapping against your hands, he threatens to bite, front limbs lifting. And you tap him on top of his head with a fingertip. ‘Don’t you dare,’ you mutter sullenly. Reaching up to clean energon off his face with his pedipalps, he eyes you. Doesn’t need friends. Just family. A conjunx. You.

• Hesitating at a distant scream, he slows to a stop to listen. That wasn’t you. Wasn’t from his lair. Needs to believe that. To will it to be true. They can’t have found him. Been so careful. But he’s still transforming, scrambling as fast as he can on his many legs. They didn’t find him or you. You’re safe. Have to be. Spark aching as he pushes himself as fast as he can go, he spots a dark vehicle in the cemetery. And Ghost agents dragging you toward it.

• Flushing as the guy who made the comment swears and laughs, the other one’s fingers are bruising on your upper arm. ‘Really? You’re seriously fucking one of them?’ He sneers. Refuse to let him shame you for loving Tarantulas. He’s sweet and so gentle. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Mouth opening, your voice is lost at a roar from the trees. Skin crawling, that sound isn’t anything human, a scream of hatred and outrage snarling with engine noise. And one the of the men holding you jolts, dropping you to claw frantically at his face. At the webbing covering it and suffocating him.

• Their hands are on you. Took you from your home, where you’re safe. Took his mate. Hurting you. Knocking a weapon aside, one man screams when he grabs him by the front of his clothes and throws him into a tombstone. And the last one drags you in front of his body. Using you as a shield as he transforms and straightens, rising up on his extra limbs. So furious he’s snarling a demand to let you go in his own language.

• You take it back. Your big, spider-man isn’t a pushover at all. He’s kind of scary and hot both right now. Heart racing as the guy holding you tries to keep you between himself and Tarantulas, you watch your alien boyfriend’s mandibles flex as he snarls gibberish. Even without understanding him, the subtext is loud and clear. This guy is about to die horribly if he doesn’t let go of you. And the guy holding you shifts his arm where it’s hooked around your neck. Putting himself in reach, so you bite down as hard as you can aware of Tarantulas lunging for you.

• Hooking his extra limbs against you, he drags you to him and his hand closes on the human’s throat as he hauls the man off the ground. Watching the man kick and claw at his servos before his attention dips to you. Using an extra limb, he cuts through the plastic binding your wrists and you throw your arms around his neck before he can check you over. Hissing softly when the man chokes and grunts, he wants to squeeze. See how much force it would take to pop the man’s head off his shoulders. The only thing stopping him? You. Doesn’t want you to know what he’s capable of. What he’ll do to protect you. “Go inside. Grab what you can. We’re moving,” he growls, lowering you to the ground. “Go,” he repeats gentling his tone as he reaches with his free hand to cup your cheek, servos stroking. How long until more Ghost agents show up? And what to do with these three?

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Next

• “You’re not even trying,” you groan, trying to get back on your feet as the other caretaker just laughs. Making no attempt to get up and just sitting on the ground. Grabbing at the wall, you try to scramble to your feet and hear a low, chittering laughter. Great. Scowling over your shoulder, you see Tarantulas in his giant spider form awkwardly shuffling over on his many legs. ‘Having difficulties?’ He croons, his multiple optics brightening as his mandibles flex with the words and the other caretaker covers their face with their gloved hands, groaning about hating spiders.

• ‘We’re good,’ you insist, sliding as you try to get to your feet and reach for the other human. Only to immediately get pulled down again trying to get them back on their feet as they wheeze, laughing. Shuffling closer, he braces a limb against the wall and digs his claws in, reaching out another limb to snag you by the back of your covering and drag you closer. “As entertaining as watching you struggle is, you’re colder than normal,” he mutters, lifting you and setting you on his back. Isn’t sure who the other human belongs to, but they’re scooting away from him.

• Snorting when Tarantulas just webs the front of your friend’s jacket and starts shuffling back the way he came, dragging them behind, you wonder why he didn’t just grab them, too. Fingers sinking into the softness of his spider fluff, he’s like a big space heater under you. Tempting you to forsake your dignity and stretch out on top of him. Looking over your shoulder to check on the other caretaker, you can hear them complaining angrily as they slide along in Tarantulas’ wake, having fallen over at some point so they’re being dragged sprawled on their back. And what he said registers. That he’d not only known you were colder than normal, but he’d cared. Sure, the two of you don’t always agree, but you’ve got a cautious understanding with the damaged mech.