#as I'm sure you can tell

[theneptuneflytrap]

Intro to thatoneguyyousawinthebackgroundofTF: ONE pt.4

ARCEE!!!!

Left: Arcee in TF: ONE Right: Arcee from Transformers Universe

For all the other intro's I started with the tech spec from their original generation one toy, unfortunately, Arcee didn't have a G1 toy. In fact, Arcee doesn't get a traditional transforming toy until 2014. To make up for this I'm going to include both her bio from the Transformers Universe (Marvel) and also her bio from Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye (Dreamwave, not to be confused w/ the IDW comic).

The following is from Transformers Universe:

Function: "Warrior"

Quote: "Looks are always deceiving"

Profile: "A sweet, kind, and loyal Autobot to her friends, Arcee is also a merciless, lethal warrior to her enemies. Arcee's intelligence, quick wit, and coolness under fire make her invaluable to the Autobot cause. The Decepticons constantly underrate her because, since to them she so closely resembles the female humans of Earth which the Decepticons have absolutely no respect for, they believe she is beneath their consideration. It is an attitude that arcee exploits with deadly efficiency. Arcee is very protective of the human, Danny Witwicky, son of Spike Witwicky, the long-time Earthling friend of the Autobots. In fact, sometimes Arcee is a bit overly protective of him and treats Danny almost like a fragile Ming vase since his skin is not composed of a supremely tough metal alloy like hers. Arcee is attracted to the Autobot, Hot Rod, who reciprocates the affection, But neither of them is willing to admit it openly. If one were to listen to the verbal pot-shots they take at each other, one would think that they were the bitterest of enemies. But catch one of the Autobots, or worse, Adecepticon. making a disparaging remark about Hot Rod in Arcee's presence and the offender will more often than not find his hydraulic hoses sliced to ribbons before he knows it".

Weakness: "Arcee's concern for Danny sometimes causes her to take excessive risks in order to protect him".

The following is from Transformers: More Than Meets The Eye, it's important to note that this came out in 2003 and is NOT a part of the Generation 1 cannon:

[From the data personal datatracks of Kup, earth date: 2003]

Bio: Arcee's different. In fact, other Autobots were at a loss to explain what exactly made Arcee so different until they turned to an old hand like me, who'd been off world before the wars. That's when I explained her resemblance to the females of other galactic species. Quick-witted and formidable in battle. Arcee's compassionate to her friends yet merciless to her foes. Her skill and ruthlessness in combat have made others wary, including Hot Rod. Still, the lad has developed a more-than-passing interest in Arcee, as has Springer. None of us have exactly figured out the reasons for all of this yet, but I seem to recall stories about there being more Transformers like her. Of course, that was crazy talk even when I was young".

Abilities: "Acree's an expert hand-to-hand warrior and sharpshooter. Her vehicle mode is equipped with several anti-personal weapons like shrapnel-launchers and tire spikes. In robot mode, she's got average strength, but she's fast.

Weaknesses: "Arcee doesn't have any physical weaknesses I've noticed".

[narnianvalkyrieofberk]

Been reading @the-mountain-flower's fic The Exiled and the Outcast (which y'all should totally go read btw) and the obsession followed me to Hero Forge. (Don't ask how long Dainix's cloak took to get right.)

[eris-eveningstar]

I love slow burns really I do but sometimes fast burns just hit yk? Like, I'm reading Before the Storm (it's complete but orphaned) and it's not like super slow. They're getting together so quick compared to other fics I've read. And I love love love it. I love my fast burns. So many writers don't understand that actually getting into the relationship doesn't mean the end of a story, there are so many other issues and things in the plot that could happen and writers who can do a great fast burn have my heart and soul.

[sparingiscaring]

Melancholy is Increasing…

You are walking down Wolfstack Docks, and you’re not sure why. You’ve outgrown this place, and the Zee beyond - so why did your feet lead you here? And why are you so compelled to linger even now?

Featuring: Zee Beasts, Memory Issues, and the Melancholy of the Endgame

Word Count: 2385 Words

Content Warnings: Game-typical descriptions of Violence (specifically monster-hunting)

@fallenlondonficswap

Happy Ficswap, everyone! @existentialcrisisetcetera, I had the honor of writing for your Secret Swap. I had a lot of fun with this one - when the inspiration hits, it hits, y'know? I hope it resonates with you, too!

You’re not quite sure what you’re doing here.

Wolfstack Docks is a place you used to be familiar with. Heavy faces on broad-shouldered frames pass, faces scored with the deep lines of wrinkles worn in well before their time. As one man passes close by, a bundle of rope wrapped around his arm, you catch the stench of alcohol on his breath - acrid, and following him in a miasma as he walks not away from, but towards the ships that crowd every inch of this place. 

It’s impossible to blame the man for enjoying every second of his shore leave. You’d have done the same, if you were in his shoes. You spare him a second glance - and catch the unmistakable color of bone, hanging from the end of his rope. If you still wore his shoes.

Maybe that is why you were here.

Even now, you can see Watchmaker’s Hill, just over the Stolen River, the Observatory standing tall and proud at its peak. Maybe you’d come to visit the old stomping grounds. Visit the Medusa’s head, and listen to it’s sorry lot tell tales about the Vake, or head to the Department just a short walk away. For old time’s sake?

Sure, most of the faces will different, but you know the types at the Medusa’s Head - those at the bar, a little too eager to bend your ear and spin a story about what they’ve seen in the Marshes just beyond the civilization of London and how they scared it away at the last possible moment, while those at the tables listen in with a sceptical twist to their frowns, and the man in the corner who laughs too loud, and a glass and rag in hand behind the bar, twisting and polishing. It’ll be caught in time. It’ll be just like you left it. 

It’ll be just like you left it.

You turn around, and let your eyes fall into an unfocused haze, scanning. A sign - a pub sign. Without a second thought, you step towards the threshold. Not the Blind Helmsman - God only knows how that place will be the same as you left it, maybe even worse than Medusa’s. No, you’d never been inside this place, never outgrown it. 

It’s a bad time to be at the pub, if you’d have wanted to meet the regulars. If this place even had regulars. The bar itself was empty, with banged-up stools all wasting away without some drunk to fill the space or a fight to be weaponry for, and glasses sitting on their lips, unpolished and collecting a heavy layer of particulate in the absence of the barkeep. Even the shadows on the wall look hollow and empty, without someone to fill them in anticipation of some secret meeting. Even the walls look hollow, covered with trinkets and trophies of names and faces you’d never seen and coated in a thick layer of dust. It is, in your humble opinion, perhaps the least interesting place in all of London. It's only novelty, if you can call it that, is not even the fact that it is new. It’s the fact that it's new to you.

And you sit down at the bar. After all, new was better, even if it was as nothing a place as this.

Nothing has been new to you in a long time. 

You didn’t notice when it happened - there was no instant, no realization that you’d done it all, no sigils lighting up the cavern ceiling in Correspondence that translated to “You can go die forever now!” It was a creeping, dawning thing, as far as your pitiful memory can conjure up to tell you. Not so far back as to when you descended into London - no, you had bright eyes then, bright eyes and a sound (enough?) mind, and you looked at the curiosities of this city with wonder. Still can remember your first cat-catch, can’t you? Even if the secret you earned is long forgotten?

You felt something even more special when you first found your way to Watchmaker’s. You felt something alive when it was Wolfstack.

Ah, that you do remember, and you remember it well. Blood on your knuckles, and a ribbon clenched tight in your fist. You remember duels, you remember Unions and Strikebreakers, you remember the overwhelming smell of the salt of the Zee clinging to the sides of ships being pulling into port, and you remember the groan of wood and fiber and metal as you witnessed the miracle of a ship, suspended for just a moment, to suffer the curse of being landbound as forms with rough hands and rougher laughs set about fixing whatever was wrong with the old girl.

You remember the woman with a body like a waterlogged corpse staring up at you from the edge of the water that night, and you remember the drunken zailor you’d never seen before, stumbling out of a bar and telling you to jam your fingers in your ear before “that thing” starts singing. You hadn’t even known what a Drownie was, then. You knew nothing the Zee had to offer up to you, except for whatever half-true tales managed to be popular enough to escape the pubs and bars and disseminate into the wider London.

Nowadays, Drownies don’t scare you.

You’re sure one could, if they were particularly stealthy and then particularly loud, but… you knew Drownies. You’d seen a lobster fisherman with a twinkle in his eye become one just a few years ago - witnessed every part of his transformation, spoke to him afterwards. You’d satiated a being with a mind far beyond your own, with his help. It was hard to feel that twinkle in your own eye when you had to appease it a second time. Harder to fear what he’d become, when you knew all the ways one could (and could not) ward off their songs. Harder still to fear becoming them, when the Fathom King refused to keep you.

The chill of the glass between your palms breaks you from your recollection for a moment. How many times have you died at Zee?

… you remember the first time. The Fathom King’s Court. The offering you gave, hoping to surface a little better off than you entered, as he weighed your worth, your influence on the scale of London, and deemed you worth returning. What killed you? It’d been a…

Right. Teeth, scales, water. You remember now. And you remember what followed.

Mutiny. Madness. Drowned. One you preferred not to speak about in polite company. Once, many unfortunate things happened all at once. Almost comical, really.

Glim-Fall was the worst. Glim-Fall had nearly broken you for a time. You… even if you wanted to go to Zee this instant, to ride the dark waves once more, you would still refuse to sail under the flag of a Corsair for all the bad luck it has brought you before. At least you knew what you did wrong when your crew ate you.

The deaths were worth it, though, impossible as it would sound to someone still able to walk the Surface. Still worth it, because where else could someone feel what you felt, standing on the deck of a ship that barely managed to float for the first time, one hand on the rough hewn of rope, and the other wrapped around the perfectly-weighted harpoon in your hand. Nothing felt right like that did. Nothing excites you like watching the impossibly dark Zee, with that harpoon in your hand, your harpoon in your hand, waiting for the thing stalking you to rear its head to devour you all, all so you can strike. 

Nothing is like it. 

You remember great things, terrible things, hulking things with bodies darker than night, bodies as dark as the water. Dark as your eyes. Dark blood, pooling on the deck of your ship, dark blood pouring around the stark-white of your harpoon. You remember the chase, the hunt, the moment of calm before the strike, and you remember the final blow. That glorious, final blow, fought over what felt like lifetimes. The thrill. The triumph of it all, crescendoing into a blaring victory. You remember it. You remember it all.

You almost feel excited remembering it, until your brain catches up to your racing heart.

You also remember the feeling of knowing everything in the Zee that could harm you. Everything you could hunt. Of hunting them all, and knowing every trick in their milky, unseeing eyes. Sure, every so often the Angler Crabs would act up on their journey to spawning, but… you could only hunt so many of the bastards before even that excitement began to fade, before even the Hunt could barely be worth a single sentence in your letters to an inconveniencing aunt who insisted she must know everything about your life. 

There’s a ship out on the dock, with your crew of seasoned zailors aboard. It used to join the raids, slaughtering Angler Crabs racing towards London, threatening to overpopulate the waters and capsize ships as they sit at harbor. You never join them anymore, because you know what can happen. You know everything that can happen. Even something new will become something old, will become something routine, will become meaningless, will become something worthless in the end. It’s all meaningless in the end.

Feet stomping on the cobble outside this nothing-bar. A commotion out on the dock, the sound of meaningless talk. You should have expected the meaninglessness, really, entering a bar right off of Wolfstacks. You should know better when it comes to this place. You roll the empty glass between your palms, and tune out the noise, the dust in the air drying your mouth as you set your jaw. Is this what the Tomb Colonist’s feel like? Dry and creaky and old and bored? Is this why they fight? You’re already so tired of fighting. Fighting is old. You feel old. 

How are you more of a walking corpse than a Tomb Colonist?

You crawl over the bar, and pop the cork on a bottle of mushroom wine. You almost laugh at the year - funny coincidence, that is. That’s your year. You polish your dusty glass with a bit of your shirt, and pour yourself a drink.

Is this why you came here? To sulk, and nurse your wounds with a stolen Greyfields vintage, and think about the glory days? 

You toss a wad of Echos behind you - it should cover it, if this place ever sees the light of anyone’s eyes again. 

You feel more pathetic than the liars at the Medusa’s head - at least they told their stories, fake as they were, instead of drowning them in a bottle like you were. You feel more pathetic than the Monster Hunter you’d seen a half-hour ago, harpoon and rope around his shoulder and that stench still on his breath. Even if you wouldn’t go about such work drunk, at least he was doing it. He was still going out, and doing what brought him joy. 

Hopefully.

Hopefully he hadn’t taken to the bottle to make it feel new, like you apparently were past the point of.

The sound outside is getting louder. Your head hurts. Your memory is throbbing, again - tricky business, always. It’s why you preferred hunting at Zee - maybe it was just the madness of an old zailor, but it felt easier to remember out there. Like… like the memories you’d lost your grip on were lurking in the reflection of milky fish-eyes, and all you had to do was throw your harpoon and reel in the line, and there they’d be. It worked better than your journal, in all honesty. 

You miss it. Damn, you miss it. You can feel the salt on your tongue, overpowering acrid wine.

Outside, a man yells.  You can’t help but overhear. 

You can’t help but drop your glass, splintering into shards and dust, when you hear what the man is yelling. Decreeing. It’s childish, but… when you run outside, alcohol on your breath, you shove your way through the crowd to the tight circle surrounding the man, like a pickpocketing Urchin would. 

There’s been a Midnight Whale spotted off the shores of Port Carnelian, and she intends to die. She is old, and she sings, and she intended to die where and how she was meant to die. 

At the Gant Pole.

The man is an old zailor, with deep wrinkles on his face, and alcohol on his breath, and a bone-harpoon on a rope tossed around his shoulder. He knows Midnight Whales. He knows what will follow her on her journey - beasts, and monsters, and men befitting those classifications as they try to take her before her time is up and her destination is reached. He’s seen it before. He’ll see it again.

The Old Zailor intends to help her to her peace, but one ship can only do so much. And so, he’s asking for the help of London.

You’ve never seen a Midnight Whale up close.

Never heard one sing.

Your ship is as you left it. Crew is, too -  and the layer of dust on your bunk is as thick as that at the pub you might never see again. 

You run a thumb along the tip of your harpoon, feeling the texture of bone sharpened away to a wicked point, and you can taste the zalt of the Zee-air on your tongue. It tastes like home.

You’ll see the Midnight Whale home.

Maybe yourself, one day, when the Zee decides to see you off. If it does - the Fathom King refuses to keep you, after all, and the Boatman rows too slowly, and the Mirror-Marsh withers at the color tainting your memories. 

Maybe once you’ve seen all the Zee has to show you, those dark waters will decide to keep you.

You set a course for Port Carnelian, for the last sighting of the Midnight Whale, and lean over the railing to gaze down into the dark, dark waters. You see your face, reflected in its depth. You see its infinite vastness reflected into your eyes.

The Zee has an eternity to show you, still

You have a lifetime to chase it.

[nyssasatelier]

When the captain doesn't accept the blame for your death you know you died dumbly 💀

Inspired by a text post from @caleohateclub

[demigods-posts]

that moment in tlh when annabeth has an exact timestamp down to the second for just how long she'd been looking for percy makes me wonder if she always has an internal clock for everything. and like. this is further reinforced when she's timed percy's morning routine with a minute to spare in cotg. or in tlt!book when she used physics to calculate the best time to jump off the boat in the thrill ride of love. call it "scheduling" and "time management" if you wanna. all i'm saying is owls have an internal biological clock and it isn't improbable to assume annabeth inherited that trait from her mother, the patron of owls herself.

[electrozeistyking]

"She's Gone"

This bad boy was started on the third of November, and finished on the seventh. In total, there are thirty panels (all of which were drawn separately).

A good chunk of N's dialogue near the end came to me after I did some improv to figure out what he should say. I have since dubbed it "N's Failure Monologue."

[vantablackdraws]

Dizzy dress scribble

[cabinette]

NORMAL PEOPLE KNOCK.

[teaboot]

tranny freak :)

[nottherealsquiddo]

[part 1]/[part 2]/[part 3]

thought about block people too hard and then suddenly these appeared on my screen

[dailyhmsw]

loop 5

[bonicedemandarina]

Click for better quality

Shotout to Leona and Cheka for singlehandedly getting me out of the worst artblock I've had in months, love these guys

Tbh I just wanted to draw Cheka doing that one thing kids do when they treat you like a climbing tree, I have other drawing about that but it's a work in progress, it was supposed to be animation practice but Ibis got some crunchy quality on the canvas if you don't pay so. Yeah. Also Grim is here bc why not

[tenderjock]

I’m with you, my love The lights shining through on you Yes, I’m with you, my love It’s the morning and just we two

[bluevelvetea]

KN8 x AO3

All tags found on @dear-ao3

[mosaickiwi]

Excuses, Excuses

ok hi i don't remember the past month anyways back to the soft stuff

Angel really likes mistletoe... and really REALLY likes their emo spouse.

-> read on ao3!! cool link!! <-

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

"Ren, do you have a second?"

Your partner looked up from his laptop to see you peeking into their room. The short string of mistletoe in the doorway was right above you — with a large gap between the dangling ribbon and your head that was strangely cute to him. He pushed away from the desk and stood up.

[REDACTED] noticed the way your eyes sparkled at his approach, even the slight lift as you prepared to stand on your tiptoes to reach him. Still, he leaned down to softly peck your forehead. 

"Need somethin', love?" he asked.

You smiled in return. "I was thinking instead of going to the cafe later… I could make breakfast? I've been practicing."

"Sure. I'll come n' keep y'company."

As he turned to gather his things to join you, you hastily grabbed his arm. "No, no, it's okay! You keep working." 

The man gave you a curious glance and you tried to keep your cool, fighting off a bigger smile. Your eyes only flicked upwards for a millisecond, but he immediately caught on. "Alright then," [REDACTED] agreed. "Let me know if y'need anything."

You nodded, not even realizing that he already knew the game. With a skip in your step, you disappeared down the hall.

It was barely a few minutes later that you came back. 

"Rennnn," you sang before leaning into the door frame. Surprisingly, you found them much closer to the door, sitting on the bed with his laptop.  "Oh. Um, how do you like your pancakes?"

He stood once more, closing the distance to you with a few steps. Another kiss to your cheek this time, and he spoke, "The same way you like yours."

"Right… just making sure!" you said, giggling as he pulled you close. 

"You really don't want me t'keep you company?" His breath tickled your hair. They weren't actually upset, but wanted to play their part until you got bored of your game. He gave a little squeeze before letting you go.

If the hacker had his way, all the mistletoe in the apartment would be woven together in a crown for you. Or, the more likely option, simply taped to your forehead. Maybe they'd suggest it after you had your fun. 

You firmly shook your head. "I want to surprise you. I'll come back when everything's ready."

Once you left the room, your dark haired lover pulled out their phone to watch the cameras in the kitchen. Through the cracked screen, he saw you actually mixing batter for pancakes. But then… you started to open and shut cabinets, clink a few glasses together, and loudly drop a pan or two on the counter for good measure.

He had to smile at your over commitment — the chance to mess with you for it was too good to pass up. His footsteps were silent as he went towards the kitchen and stopped just out of sight in the hallway. 

"Everything okay in there?" he said, silently laughing at the feed as you ducked down to hide behind a counter. "You're makin' a lot of noise f'just pancakes."

"... Well, I'm not that good at cooking yet," you eventually responded. You slowly stood up and went back to mixing the batter in case he walked in. "Don't come in, though! Nothing's on fire."

"If y'say so."

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

When you came back to his bedroom for the third time, [REDACTED] was already waiting beside the door, wondering what your next excuse would be.

You peeked your head in, eyes widening at the sight of him standing so close by. "Hiii." Impatiently, you waited for your kiss. But nothing happened. You pouted and searched for a reason to bother him. "Um… I forgot what you like to drink."

He had seen you starting the coffee pot before heading into the hall, but acted none the wiser. "Black coffee."

You stood there for a few more seconds as they pretended to occupy himself with the phone. You finally broke the silence, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Yeah, Angel?" his gaze flicked to you. "Like what?"

"Like the…" you trailed off as you looked overhead to find the doorway empty. You curiously glanced all around the room, but the mistletoe was nowhere to be found — as if it was never even there. With a frown, you realized he'd been onto you the whole time. "Put it back."

The man said nothing as he reached into his pocket. "Y'know, you could just wear it," he teased, finally holding the small, ribboned bundle of stems out to you.

"Ooh, good idea," you agreed immediately and took it, then walked away to the kitchen, naturally assuming he'd follow. Rummaging through a draw by the sink, you found a roll of tape. The mistletoe got haphazardly stuck to your forehead, and before you could turn around completely, [REDACTED] was already waiting to kiss you. 

You happily tilted your head back, still holding the mistletoe in place as best you could. His lips pressed light and soft to yours. You could feel his hair faintly touch your fingers, and their hand wrap along the side of your hip trapped between his body and the counter.

"There," he whispered against the corner of your mouth. "Isn't this easier than findin' every reason t'stand under it?" He pulled back to reach up to a cabinet at your side without waiting for your answer. As he did, you eagerly tore another piece of tape off for your mistletoe.

The stacks of pancakes you'd made — all in the attempted shape of a tree, the prettiest ones at the top — were still warm on their platter next to the stove. You carried them over to the table and sat down, your beloved hacker on your heels with two drinks. Your favorite for the winter and his usual black coffee were in their hands.

One mug was set beside your plate, but not before another kiss was set upon your cheek to go with it. Then another once he set down his own. And another once they sat in their chair next to you.

You muffled your laughter with the back of your hand. "Is this gonna happen until the mistletoe comes off?" But it was exactly what you'd been hoping for when he gave you the idea.

[REDACTED] took a long, slow slip of his coffee. He idly licked his lips before answering your question. "'Course it is." Your cheek felt warm from the familiar touch of his lips soon after.

As you picked up your fork to eat, you mumbled quietly enough for them to barely hear, "I'll have to use more tape."