#idw tarantulas

[dezmolad]

u can say a lot about idw Prowl but one thing is sure. he likes his men with visors.

the prefference is strong, loud and clear ok

[rayfishandchips]

Prowl in his dream, from Transformers: Sins of the Wreckers

May I suggest how beautiful this design is. More flowy less chunky but still pointy, I especially like the design for the shoulder part.

Potential spoiler under cut.

Ok actually. Prowler. Oh my.

Tarantulas trapped Prowl by giving him a dream to sedate him. This dream is where Optimus listens to Prowl and follows his plans and understands him, where they successfully build peace and stability. It's where Optimus supports him and tell him it's hard being the ones that know stuff.

idw Prowl may be morally grey but he's one hell of an interesting character. Starting to understand Prowl enjoyers now, I want to trap him in a jar and study this creature.

His dream is on being understood and supported. Do the strategist ever feel lonely too?

I'll see myself out.

[revelboo]

Considering that Tarantulas inherited more than one kind of instinct from his arachnid altmode, do you think that he'd also have this instinctive fear for his life after mating and he can't figure out why at first? Then, his human has to explain that most female earth arachnids tend to eat the male after mating, and everything suddenly makes sense. And maybe his human can reassure him they do not intend to kill and eat him while giving him some post-coital snuggles.

🤣 poor guy already has trust issues 🔞 mass displaced mech 🌶️

Trust

Tarantulas x Reader

• Easing back and feeling the webbed nest bouncing slightly as his spidery extra limbs flare out slightly when he stalks you, there’s a whisper of unease. Because are you really doing this? With him? Sometimes, a lot of the times, you have no idea what he’s thinking and his moods are so manic he keeps you on edge. But after being stuck with him for this long, you understand him a little better. Those glimpses of the hurt and lonely mech under the madness what keeps you anchored and he’s tense like he expects you to try to bolt. To change your mind. Like he’s as unsure as you are and it helps.

• Moving slowly, he crouches over you, mandibles flexing against your belly and thighs as he vents. Some of his tension easing when you part your thighs. Inviting his touch. “I like how you scent when you’re needing,” he growls and you laugh like he said something funny. Jaw sliding against you, he cups your hips to lift you slightly before spreading his mandibles to spear his glossa inside you. Feels your thighs tremble before you slowly relax, giving in to the aphrodisiac in his salvia, his venom. Stroking deep his attention flicks up to your face, your need darkened eyes. Reluctantly easing you down, his glossa slides over your ribs and he shifts to cage you.

• Feel his extra limbs bumping you, adjusting you as you float in a haze of heat and need. Not even weirded out as the mandibles of his altmode spread and hook against your waist, his extra limbs pinning your legs up and open as you feel the head of his spike press against you. The faint burn of him stretching you fraying that warm haze some as he gives a clicking hiss. That alien, spidery noise stringing you tight, making you shiver. And he’s pressing deep in a slow surge, hips rolling as you grab at his chassis. Gasping when he begins moving against you, thrusting urgently.

• Hips pumping, you’re slicker, tighter than he’d imagined. Those needy sounds you’re making deliciously obscene as he moves inside you, claiming you. Impatient to have everything. To bond and spark you, but knowing he needs to go slow. To not overwhelm you. Just because he’s inside you, doesn’t mean he’s still not hunting you. Assumptions can hurt, learned that lesson the hard way the last time he’d deluded himself into thinking he was in love not really understanding what love was. Patience never his strongest suit, though. You’re squirming under him, head thrown back as he thrusts. Accepting him. Needing him. Can’t mess this up this time.

• He’s gentler with you than you’d expected him to be even if the nest is bouncing as he ruts against you. His limbs caging you, keeping you trapped in the position he’s got you in so you can’t really move how you need. And when he tries to push your legs up higher, the change in angle tips you over the edge. Crying out as you come apart and his thrusts lose their rhythm. Hear him grunting and snarling right before he’s filling you, overloading hard, bucking shallowly as he hisses.

• Anxiety comes from nowhere as he releases inside you, instincts jangling as your soft fingers fist in the ruff of fur on his shoulders. There’s an overwhelming urge to web you down. To retreat even as he wants to linger and enjoy the warm glow of after. And he lurches off of you when your head lifts, mouth brushing the mesh of his neck. Extra limbs fanning out aggressively as your legs fall to the nest and you twist to sit up slightly, thighs slick with his glowing release. “What’s wrong?” You ask, eyes hurt as you stare at him and he’s not sure.

• Maybe it wasn’t good for him? Or that was all he really wanted and he’s been lying to you. Playing you. Wincing at the thought, you watch him shift restlessly, limbs up and tense. Like he thinks you’re going to attack him? “Tarantulas?” And he shudders, head shaking. Starting to use his extra limbs to climb the side of the nest away from you. “Was that all you wanted from me? Sex?”

• No. Wants more. Wants all of you, but that uneasy jangling is getting stronger. Thinks of Prowl shoving him into the Noisemaze. Betraying him as you stare up at him in confusion, your eyes so hurt it hurts him. “Something’s wrong. Instincts,” he mutters, shaking his head again and you hesitate. ‘Spider instincts?’ You ask, voice funny. ‘You don’t think I’m going to eat you now, do you?’ No. Yes? Mandibles flexing, he’s aware of how stupid the thought is, but he can’t shake it. Instincts screaming that you’re a threat to him now when he’s just wants to hold you. Stay inside you. Claim you again.

• “Humans don’t do that, but some spiders do,” you mutter, remembering seeing some nature documentaries on it as a kid and being even more terrified of spiders for watching them. “Come down, please? I swear I won’t try to eat you.” Because you’re feeling used and hurt at being abandoned by him. And he slowly eases down, two of his extra limbs tapping against your legs as he moves closer. Hear him venting as he stretches out facing you, but not touching you. Is he really afraid of you? He’s bigger, much stronger. Wiggling closer makes him tense, but you ignore it to grab his wrist and pull one of his big, clawed hands to you.

• “I know you’re not a threat. It’s just instincts,” he mutters, hand cupping your cheek, a clawed servo sliding against you. Because it’s not just his altmode, it’s so fused with him that he’s not even sure he’s completely Cybertronian anymore at this point. A monster, a horror that others avoid. The mad scientist, broken by his own machinations. And you stretch out against him, legs sliding against his. Accepting him as he tries to ignore that instinct screaming at him, to push it down and pull you close. You’re not a threat. Not Prowl. Wrapping his limbs around you, he hears you murmur at him to ease up his grip as you squirm. Needs you. Needs you to love him.

[the-ratt-king]

The lyrics here are from IFHY by Tyler the creator and Cellophane by FKA twigs (though it could just as easily be the muppets version lol)

[shockstarcels]

the fact that we will never know what was said between the two of them haunts me to this day.

[gilbertgoosey]

a concerning amount of TF villains have rivals / enemies that they are 'secretly' just obsessed with

[k4r4ss]

[steelthroat]

Guys how would the Tarantulas/Tarn ship be called?

TarTar??? Or like "the Tartar"

It either looks dumb or sounds ominous because of mythology. So yeah very them.

Also lol I am sorry imagine tarn catching tarantulas for any reason and starting the torture-music(tm) and tarantulas starts doing a spider mating dance. Please. It's dumb so fucking dumb but hear me out please hsjfjgjhjh

[transingthoseformers]

https://www.tumblr.com/transingthoseformers/786627495428587520/pharma-its-me-i-discovered-sxual-reproduction Tarantulas: we’re having a baby! Prowl: what’s a baby. [later] YOU PUT A WHAT IN ME. HOW IS IT COMING O U T. Meanwhile, many years later, Pharma is taking notes

:)

Fun horrors here

[dezmolad]

Transformers: Parental Issues of The Wreckers

[revelboo]

The elite trine are my babies, but after the last post (I’m dying at the spider crotch, how did I never notice that)I can’t help thinking of Tarantulas (or any cybertronin really but definitely him in this specific scenario) with a human who does crafting projects, especially things like crochet and knitting since he spins silk. I wonder how badly he would fritz out if you made something for yourself from his silk and wore it 👀

Oooh!

Silk

Tarantulas x Reader

• Venting in amusement as he watches you reach to touch his webbing, before grabbing and yanking. Stealing any of his silk that’s not sticky and within reach. Or cleaning his habsuite. He’s not entirely sure which as he watches you. “I’m just going to replace it,” he growls, head tipping as he moves closer, mass shifting and thumping two of his extra limbs down on either side of you to make you freeze. “My silk,” he clarifies, lifting up on his extra limbs to loom over you, watching your head tip back.

• “Okay,” you say, hugging the bundle of web to yourself as he makes a soft chittering that might be laughter, clawed servos reaching to touch the ends of your hair. Watching his mandibles flex and catching his other mandibles flexing from your periphery to make it so hard to not start snorting. You’re not sure if he just doesn’t realize how weird his anatomy is or if he enjoys leaning into the weirdness. Probably the latter when one of the mandibles of the head of his spider altmode at his crotch hooks against your arm and you dance backwards, retreating with your bundle of silk.

• Hissing softly as he watches you carry his webbing back to your little space you’ve claimed, making your own nest of pillows and blankets to retreat to during the day while he works on projects. Extra limbs tapping, he watches you begin to separate the tangle, before leaning to grab a box you’d made him retrieve from your apartment. Venting in puzzlement, he shakes his head at you and wanders over to his desk and his research notes.

• Fingers sliding over the soft webs, the second you’d figured out some of his webbing was as soft as moth wings, you’d started stealing it. Hoarding more for your project. And it’s not like there’s much else to do except amuse yourself. Carefully crocheting his silk into a loose tunic, because his silk is the softest thing you’ve ever touched. Sitting crosslegged, you pull out what you have so far and work to add to it with your new materials. Thankfully, he’s serious with his threat to replace missing webbing when you steal it and he’s been idly webbing his habsuite anytime you mess with his webs so you have a never ending supply of silk.

• Glancing over at where you’re working bent over, he growls softly. Has no real clue what you’re up to, your secrecy putting him on edge. Because you might be plotting. Might be up to something. Setting aside his notes, he stalks you, watching your fingers move with those funny needles you’d wanted. Are you making something with his silk? Head tilting as he plants three extra limbs on the other side of you, he leans over you and you look up in surprise. “Are you making something naughty?”

• Wrinkling your nose at him, because why is that where his mind goes? Though, since the tunic isn’t finished and isn’t that long, you suppose it could be considered naughty with your crotch and ass exposed. “Stop being a creep,” you mutter, holding up the garment you’re working on and he stills aside from his mandibles. ‘You wish to wear my silk?’ He growls, a servo touching the tunic as he chitters at you to make the fine hair at your nape lift. And he’s bending to hook an arm around you, hauling you up and heading for his suspended nest. Apparently the idea of you wearing his silk getting him going as you laugh at him.

[the-ratt-king]

from one cute family to another <3

[shockstarcels]

okay so. since tarantulas recognize ostaros voice through springer. does that mean he taught ostaros to say his name so that it could be his first word. and if he did, does that mean tarantulas kept a recording of his voice and listened to it everytime he misses him.

[shnowyfox]

oughghughhghh SINS OF THE WRECKERS SCRAPPED ANIMATIC

why did they do this they're so mean to me specifically in particular

hopefully it posts this time... i rlly don't wanna have to upload this to yt </3

I was planning on polishing at least the chorus but i just straight can't bring myself to look at it anymore

[laikksadventures]

A tarantulas I made for a non transformers friend lol

I showed her this guy and she was like. Draw him. I want him. So thats what I did lol. I've never drawn this man in my life. And I'm ASS at acrylic markers. So decided to combine both things I'm shit at and make a piece. I learned a lot and had fun!

Proof and hyperspecific list of supplies under cut (if I did this right)

I forgot to take wips so I'll list what I used and I'm gonna be hyper specific to make my point that I made this.

Supplies:

A tfa optimus mechanical pencil with the optimus slowly fading off that I got from ebay

A pentel hi-polymer eraser (white)

Faber castle kneaded eraser

Random ah water color paper from amazon

Arrtx acrylic markers in the colors numbers:

08

03

05

59

61

41

74

45

43

48

76

52

A dual tipped A40

99

01

white posca

A keep waters water color set 100 colors

Maya Himi water color brush set (yellow)

A kuromi and my melody makeup brush cleaner

A sprits bottle from the dollar store

[crocomum]

Ash or Hickory for the Fic Ask Meme with Taraprowl?

[ HICKORY ] sender pushes receiver to admit that they need them.

There had been no wince of empathetic pain or shock of worry from the spider as he watched the crash. Only the thrill of opportunity had rippled across his techno-organic frame making its purple hairs stand on end. He had not heard the contents of the argument, only witnessed its results. Its predictable results.

Optimus Prime and Prowl arguing about morals and plans. And as before, the Prime had shown he held his former second-in-command in a lower regard than that of his enemies.

It was a delicious irony that the mechs Prowl sought to protect most were the ones who left him at his most vulnerable.

The spider scuttled from where he had been hiding underneath an outcropping of rock, its shadow having obscured his frame from the one-sidedly violent row’s participants on the tall cliff above. His alt’s natural camouflage worked better than any cloaking technology he could develop. There were no electronic sensors to detect from the sway of fur, its color, or the contouring shape his form could bend itself into.

The frame that had fallen—had been thrown, from the height above lay in a crumpled heap on the hard earth. Wings askew, legs at impossible angles, one shoulder half-ripped from its joint socket. Oh, poor, poor, Prowl.

There had been no vegetation to cushion the praxian’s landing and despite his impressive wings, the Autobot was incapable of flight. Prowl had landed hard on his faceplate and the splatter of pink around his helm, the half not pressed into the dirt, was any indication then he had likely sustained major processor damage.

Tarantulas very much hoped so.

If his partner were suffering from processor damage it would make his next plans so much easier. So much more excusable when the praxian inevitably confronted his (future) husband on the changes to his core processes.

Tarantulas tutted, “Oh my dear, look at you. You understand now, yes? What happens when you leave my side?”

Two of his legs reached around the praxian to right him. The mech should be on his side to remove the risk of flooding his internals with his own internal fluid. He noticed the hole that had torn itself into Prowl’s cheek and chin and might have frowned were his alt-mode capable. Had the Prime meant to cause so much damage to the praxian? Likely not, but it was to Tarantulas’ benefit that he had.

His paws brushed over damaged wings with only the minimalist urge to rip one off. Merely as an experiment, of course. Their purpose was more than decorative, appealing as they were to look at. They acted as environmental sensory panels and were highly sensitive.

What would Prowl do if one was removed? Could he retain his balance? Would his processor overcorrect for the loss of sensory data? Would his remaining wing’s passive collection of signals increase? Would he scream? Would he allow Tarantulas to—

A leg cracked, its joint snapping completely as it was angled correctly, and Prowl choked on an energon filled groan. Tarantulas soaked in the sound, his mandibles clicking together as he considered just a sip…a taste really….

He shook his helm, six of his optics remaining solely focused on Prowl and two on the cliff above. There was no movement. Because of course there would be none. The Prime did not understand the inconceivable agony that was Prowl’s loss. The Autobots, ignorant as they were troublesome, could not comprehend how invaluable the praxian’s tactics had been to their war effort.

However, they did have the inconvenient quality of appearing where they were least wanted. He needed to focus on his task, on securing the praxian for transport.

“They do not appreciate you as I, dear. Look how they attack and…”

Tarantulas trailed off, two of his paws rubbing together nervously as Prowl’s field lashed out at him and his remaining optic hardened into a glare. Delightful as being freely given any of his muse’s fiercely guarded emotions was, that they were so clearly hateful rereminded him they had yet to clear the air as it were regarding their last encounter.

“Oh, yes the business with The Wreckers and our creation, I understand you’re still…mistrustful of my intentions. Hm, but I understand now that I overreacted. It was a misunderstanding! You did not push me into the noisemaze; you could not bring yourself to cause me harm. Not personally, the same as how you could not kill our Ostaros. You cared for him in the capacity you could. Cared for me.”

That capacity being severely limited by Prowl’s own internal restrictions; his reluctance to share of himself and his internal dialogues. Both things of the past once Tarantulas made a few necessary adjustments to his muse’s processor. Nothing to damage his sharp wit or brilliant mind, of course. Never. But there would be no more misunderstandings between them. No more secrets. No more restraint.

And once he cleared Ostaros’ processor of the trauma that was Springer, all would be perfect, and their family could begin anew.

“Once I have secured you safely in my lab, I’ll fully repair and fix…no, no, no not fix. No, there is nothing about my muse that requires fixing.” Tarantulas chittered to himself, annoyed with his own slip of glossa. He knew how Prowl disliked being referred to as flawed, as broken—even if both descriptors were aptly applied, it was of no fault of Prowl’s own. The Autobots were to blame, the Decepticons too, to some degree. They would both be delt their dues after Tarantulas’ family was safely hidden in the protective web of his lab. Both factions would both learn the invaluable service Prowl had provided to their eternal war, if only in that he had served as a tether to hold Tarantulas back.

Prowl had acted as a tightly wound leash, one the scientist had worn willingly and enthusiastically, but had curtailed him from enacting the best of his impulses. It had also tangled itself around Mesothulas’ visor early in their association, blinding him to the reality of how compromised his muse had become by his own processor glitch and the ruining influence of Optimus Prime.

Slowly, he began to pull webbing from his artificial spinneret and weave it around Prowl’s legs. The praxian jolted, no doubt recognizing the texture. Tarantulas chuckled, equal parts amused and admiring as he watched Prowl attempt to pull away using his only working limb. His servo could only ineffectually push against the ground, but his energy levels were too low and frame too damaged to muster any real force of strength. It was precious how his muse continued to resist when the numbers in his helm must have informed him of its futility.

Tarantulas cooed, “Shh, shh, do not strain yourself, dear. You need not fear me. I need you. I’ve always needed you. I know this now.”

What could he accomplish without his muse? Nothing. Tarantulas had survived his last encounter with the Wreckers, but at what cost? Prowl. Ostaros. Purpose.

Mesothulas had not needed Prowl. Mesothulas had needed Tarantulas. Because Mesothulas, a weak and easily swayed sycophant, had possessed neither the strength nor determination required to keep the attentions of a mech like Prowl, or to protect his most precious of creations. Tarantulas had incorporated that strength into his very cyber-nano algorithms. His need for Prowl was frame intrinsic; as required to maintain healthy as energon and oil.

He had nearly gone mad without him. His processor decaying from lack of simulation and direction. Yes, nearly mad….

Gently as he could, he used the legs not wrapping Prowl in web to lift him so the greyish strands could completely encircle him. The praxian jerked in his hold, his jaw cracking as a gurgle of protest spilled down the side of his cut open intake. Beautiful, so beautiful—

Desire burned its way through Tarantulas’ systems like boiling energon. He panted through his mandibles, his vents hot enough to steam against Prowl’s white metal. A taste. Just a taste of his most desired mate.

As his webbing continued to wrap higher along Prowl’s frame, over his waist and generous chassis—he brought the praxian closer to lick along his neck, cleaning it with his elongated glossa, resembling an insect’s proboscis more so than any Cybertronian component. He slid it up and onto the mech’s chin, tasting, drinking. It slithered into Prowl’s mouth through the hole the stretched from high on his cheek to the base of his chin. His glossa left a wet, translucent trail along cracked denta that had clenched tight.

Once Prowl’s neck, helm and intake had been cleaned of its leaked energon, he slowly covered his partner’s neck with webbing. He paused long enough to watch Prowl’s remaining optic cycle wide; the spider was utterly fascinated with what his muse could possibly be processing. How many escape strategies had he already formulated? Soon Tarantulas would know, because soon Prowl would never be able to hide his true thoughts behind cold blue optics again.

His webbing covered Prowl’s chin, his olfactorate, his optic, then finally his broken chevron and everything above.

A sudden thought, of Prowl being wrapped in his webs with Tarantulas’ oral mucus clinging to his plating, caused him to trill. His scent, his very essence would seep protoform deep into the praxian. Tarantulas sighed in wonder at the very thought.

Then, there was movement above. Tarantulas’ spark banged in its casing as rocks bounced down from the cliff face and landed dangerously close to his mummified muse. They needed to leave before that terrible Prime’s inconsistent conscious urged him to see why the mech he had assaulted was not yet making his way back up the cliff.

Tarantulas placed Prowl along his back and utilized his newest technology, developed for Prowl as they all were and would forever be, to shrink them both down. The praxian’s field shook with confusion by the rapid shift, but the anger soon returned, and Tarantulas felt some small swell of empathy for his dearest.

With vocals now of a higher frequency and pitch due to his diminutive size, he soothed, “Rest now, my muse. I know I need you, but you need not say it back.”

Not yet.