Rewards

You know what I think is really cool about language (English in this case)? It’s the way you can express “I don’t know” without opening your mouth. All you have to do is hum a low note, a high note, then another lower note. The same goes for yes and no. Does anyone know what this is called?

Could I request something super fluffy and light if you have time? Just lost my fur baby 5 days after getting back to college.

I’m so sorry to hear that. Losing pets is heartbreaking. 

I’ve had this fluff in my drafts for a while now, seems an appropriate time to break it out. XXXX

----

There are very few things in the world that can stop a Trauma. And bullets – you're sad to discover – are not one of them.

The hulking mass of flesh and muscle advances slowly, pressing you further back against an overturned lorry that blocks your path, as though the universe itself has decided to punish you for sneaking out of the Maker Tree – alone - to hunt for supplies. 

One thought breaks through the panic. 

Your best friend, Jones, is going to kill you if you make it back alive. 

Of all the demons whose attention you could have drawn, it would be one of the largest and deadliest variety. The tusks jutting from its jaw gleam with copious amounts of stinking, viscous drool and when it opens its mouth to roar, flecks of the vile spittle manage to spatter onto your face and arms as you raise the meagre revolver you'd brought with you for defence.

Another round explodes from the chamber and like the others, sinks no more than an inch into the demon's head before its momentum is brought to an abrupt halt by the toughened hide. Helpless, you can only watch as the Trauma gives its skull a rough shake and the bullet wiggles loose.

Your eyes follow the tiny projectile down to where it lands, tinkling softly on the tarmac and rolling to a stop near your feet.

There it lays, innocent, devoid of even the slightest inkling that it's done anything wrong by you.

Reality hits you like a sack of bricks. This is it.

You can't run...

You certainly can't fight. And there's no way Ulthane will hear you from the tree if you scream. Even if he could, he'd never be able to reach you before the Trauma gets its jaws around your neck.

Like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck, you remain frozen to the spot, but there's just enough fight left in you to try raising your head up in a final show of defiance. If you're to die, you don't want the demon to know you're afraid. Although, the fear rolling off you in palpable waves is liable to be picked up by those flaring nostrils.

“Come on then!” you holler, scrubbing furiously at the river of tears that stream from your eyes, “W~what are you waiting for!?” The shape of its jaw doesn't allow for much expression, but somehow, you just know the demon is smiling, as if enjoying this terrifying game of cat and mouse, and if there's anything worse than knowing you're going to die, it's waiting for it to happen.

Before the Trauma strikes, a fat, bulging tongue lolls out of its mouth and it drags the slimy muscle slowly through the saliva coating its jagged fangs, savouring the taste of your fear.

And then suddenly, faster than you thought it could, the demon lunges.

An enormous, meaty paw swipes at you from the left and you let out a scream as it connects, knocking you sideways and onto the hard ground. Your jaw is the first thing that cracks against tarmac and immediately, your vision turns white before little spots of colour start to bleed into view, crawling about like bugs on the insides of your eyelids.

Gasping for air, you heave yourself onto your back and bring your hands up to brush gingerly over your throbbing chin. Teeth grit through the shrill ringing in your ears, you have all of a second to register what had just happened when the Trauma's palm suddenly appears above you and drops down heavily onto your midsection.

Another scream tries to leap out, but you hadn't had the time to draw in a breath. What comes out instead is a pathetic wheeze that you wish you could take back when the demon starts to press down, hard, crushing the air out of your lungs until you aren't sure what will break first. The road beneath you, or your bones.

Two claws, each longer than you are tall, sprout from the Trauma's knuckles and you peer up through the gap between them, frantically scrabbling at the ground to try and find any sort of purchase that might help you dislodge yourself from beneath the ten-tonne goliath. Alas, you know there's about as much hope of that as there is of a mouse fending off a hungry tiger.

The Trauma's bulbous head looms down towards you and you'd swear the grunts and chuffs that roll from its throat are some, twisted form of laughter. You can't help it. A scream rips out of your mouth before you can swallow it back down and your captor responds by revelling in the sound, its nostrils flaring excitedly.

With an agonising slowness only meant to torment you further, the demon pries its jaws apart and your ears are abruptly met with a tumultuous, infuriated roar.

Only....

The roar doesn't come from the monster above you.

You barely have time to contemplate the pounding footsteps that rattle your teeth and amalgamate with your heartbeat before something big slams into the Trauma's side and the weight that had been slowly flattening you against the pavement is suddenly gone.

With one, tremendous gulp of air, your lungs are once again filled to burst.

Overhead, the Trauma bellows, and this time, it receives an answering howl of outrage.

Squinting through the haze of dust kicked up by the newcomer, you see your former assailant wrestling valiently with another creature, one that's equal in size.

You've seen all manner of demon since the world ended. Big and small, fat, thin, ugly and some, even arguably beautiful.

But never have you seen one quite like this.

A silver titan stands between you and the Trauma on a pair of long, graceful legs with plates of armour strapped to almost every inch of its body. Even the tail that sprouts from the middle of the creature's back has plates of metal affixed to the tip. The entire appendage curls up and over its head like the tail of a scorpion, poised and ready to strike at the Trauma, whose yellow eyes are still bulging out of their sockets.

With a hiss, the newcomer grabs its opponant by a tusk and gives it a brutal shove, effectively forcing the Trauma to stagger back several metres, teetering on its disproportionately small feet as its weight is thrown off balance.

You swiftly decide you don't want to stick around and find out if it wins the fight.

Aware that this may be your only chance of escaping to see another day, you scramble up onto your feet and make a run for it, barrelling clumsily past the armoured giant.

The blood in your ears is pounding so fiercely, you don't even notice that behind you, there's a screech, and before you know it, you're jerked to a sudden halt when a long tail darts out and curls around your waist.

Crying out a frantic, “NO!” you begin to struggle, slapping your palms on the warm metal and grunting with the effort of trying to wriggle free from the strangely gentle grip. Your new captor lets out a sharp bark that sounds more avian than canine before it deposits you on the ground right behind its heel, your back to the upturned lorry once more.

As its tail unwinds from your torso, you roll your gaze up the monstrous body standing protectively between you and the Trauma and wonder what the Hell its motivation is. Why would it stop you from trying to leave?

Whilst the demon shakes itself and paces agitatedly, assessing this tall, lanky threat, the silver giant turns its head to glance briefly down at you, and for the first time, you meet its luminous, golden gaze. The eyes burn into you for what feels like an eternity, unblinking, devoid of any pupil or iris and your throat turns dry as you realise something chilling.

They're the eyes of a predator.

Suddenly, you can't seem to swallow. Only when it turns to face the Trauma once more do you realise you'd been holding your breath and you gasp, sucking in a deep lungful of oxygen.

Perhaps if you move slowly and quietly, you could escape its notice and make a break for the nearest alleyway, one that's too narrow for either demon to slip down. Steadying your nerves, you begin to edge your way along the lorry, never once taking your eyes of the creature in front of you.

Glancing back at you, the beast's mechanical jaw parts and out slips a growl as it lowers its tail again and uses the rounded edge to block your retreat, nudging you back into place behind its legs, all the while ignoring your squawks of protest.

You can't help but feel somewhat like a bone that's being guarded by a ravenous dog. Because that's all this is, isn't it? This silver titan is doing nothing more than defending its next meal from a contender.

A gutteral snarl snatches your attention and you glance through a pair of towering legs to see the Trauma.

Apparently, it has grown tired of sizing up the newcomer and lumbers towards you with its arms spread to its sides, the claws protruding from its knuckles pointed forwards like the tusks of a charging elephant, ready to gore.

Heart booming, you blurt, “Look out!” though why you would ever warn the silver giant is beyond even your own comprehension.

Still, it hurls its gaze forward again and raises its left arm, and you only then notice that what sprouts from its sinewy shoulders is less of an arm and more of a long, daunting rifle, as though someone had sawn the appendage off at the elbow and welded a gun in its place.

The Trauma is almost upon you as the strange appendage lifts to meet the demon's chest and before you can clap your hands over your ears, an explosion of gunfire erupts from the barrels. Round after round, the silver titan fires on the Trauma, who now seems far less incensed and tries to spin itself around mid charge, its flesh torn to pieces before it can get too far.

You have to wonder where the bullets keep generating from because they leave their chambers with no sign of slowing or running dry. When the lumbering demon turns to cover its head, it instead finds its back shredded to ribbons by the neverending hail of ammunition and in just seconds, the Trauma crashes heavily to its knees. Even when it crumples, dragging itself away on its belly, the second creature doesn't relent. It takes a few, long strides to the downed demon and swings its gun up, emptying dozens of rounds into the thick skull.

You're so perturbed by such a display, the prospect of getting out of there yourself slips your mind and by the time you realise you should be moving, the gunfire abruptly cuts off.

Smoke trails lazily from the barrels of that terrible weapon as its wielder's silver helm slowly swivels in your direction.

“No, no! Stay back! G-Get away from me!” you half shout, half plead with the angular beast when it tilts its head to one side and treads over to you, and though its weaponised arm is lowered, you're all too aware that this thing poses a sizeable threat.

It stops in front of you, still regarding you with wide, almost curious eyes. Then, gradually, it lowers itself down into a crouch, legs bending at the knee and ankles until it rests back onto its haunches.

After a few more moments of silence, the silver head drops down close, far too close for your liking. You'd need only reach a hand out and you could touch its chin. The horns sweeping forwards from the sides of its face hover to your left and right and it feels very much like being surrounded by the bars of an impenetrable cage. 

Licking your lips, you stammer out, “Wh-what do you want?”

Predictably, it doesn't reply. It instead continues to stare, the slitted nostrils winking open and closed, sniffing. 

Then, without warning, its jaws part and you let out a squeak, slamming your eyes shut so you won't have to see the grey, pointed teeth that sit behind its metallic lips. A slow second ticks by in which you wait for the inevitable and painful bite that’ll end your pathetically short life, and then...

Your fear is momentarily thrust aside to make room for disgust.

Something rough and warm and wet smacks against your bloodied chin and suddenly, your whole face is engulfed in the sticky softness of what you're almost certain is the creature's sandpapery tongue. It drags up over your features in one, long swipe before flicking off your forehead and a throaty rumble fills the air around you.

“EUGH! Gross!”

Spitting an unthinkable globule of your lower lip, you wipe frantically at the stuff coating your eyes, coughing and spluttering like you'd just survived drowning.

Once your vision is no longer obscured, you blink rapidly and find that, as you'd expected, the beast is retracting a dark, slimy tongue.

It occurs to you that it might be having a preliminary taste but before you can ponder too long on whether or not it finds you appetising, the creature begins to...

Well... shrink.

Metal plates slide over one another as its body collapses in on itself and the purple mane billowing from its head shortens and is swiftly replaced by spiked, black hair. The tail that had scooped you up retreats between a pair of shoulder blades and in just seconds, you're no longer staring up at a colossal beast. Instead, you're looking at a man, dressed from head to foot in a full suit of bizarre and alien armour. 

Although he's still heads and shoulders your superior in height, he's nowhere near his previous stature. An ounce of dread fades from your chest.

The man rolls his neck, a hand pressed to the back of it for a moment before he seems to remember where he is and he suddenly snaps his gaze down to you again, a soft huff drifting out from beneath his mask.

You simply gape back, speechless. If you hadn't just seen the transformation with your own two eyes, you'd never believe it had happened at all. Hell, part of you is still in denial.

Gradually, you feel words start to form on your tongue. “What the he~EEY!” 

In the blink of an eye, the stranger cuts you off mid sentence by throwing himself at you, arms wide. You try to dodge him, failing miserably when he swiftly scoops you up into his thick, metallic arms and promptly buries the front of his mask into your hair. The action is so far from what you'd been expecting, you stop putting up a fight altogether and merely dangle limply from his grasp with your feet hanging just below his knees.

Clearing an awkward lump from your throat, you sputter, “Uh... I'm sorry. Have... have we met?”

For a moment, you feel the man's hard chin rub against your hair as he nods and you're about to ask where on Earth you'd met him when he suddenly stiffens and drops you back to the ground, stepping away to frantically shake his head. A sound starts up in his throat, like he's about to speak, but seems to reconsider a second later and you hear the distinct snap of his jaw as it falls shut. 

While the behaviour is odd, you decide it best not to provoke a man who can turn into a twenty five foot monster at the flip of a switch. So instead, you gesture to the Trauma behind him and offer what you hope is a genuine smile, despite the edges of your mouth quivering in protest.

“Um.... Thank you?” you whisper feebly, “I-I'm assuming you meant to save my life?”

The man's chest jerks as he snorts and nods again, but otherwise remains silent.

Curious as to his wordlessness, you cock your head and ask, “What's the matter? Can't you talk?”

He hesitates, hands clenching into fists and a look of uncertainty flashing across his amber eyes. Then, following several, awkward seconds, he shakes his head.

“Oh... Bummer.” You purse your lips, at a loss until you start to wonder if he's expecting some kind of repayment. “I'm sorry.” You anxiously begin to tug at the hem of your shirt. “I really am grateful, but I don't have anything I can give you to say a proper thanks.”

It's as if you'd dealt him a physical blow. Immediately, he backs up and throws his arms forwards, hands waving hastily as if he were appalled by the very idea.

Inwardly, you sag with relief. “Oh, well. In that case, I guess we'd... better be on our separate ways.” Turning to walk away, you’re stopped when the man suddenly leaps into action, striding in front of you and blocking your path. 

“What!?” you blurt, startled, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling, “What’s wrong”

He points insistently down the street you'd emerged from in your attempt to flee the Trauma. Glancing after his hand, you realise he's indicating the Maker tree's uppermost branches that are poking out from behind some of the distant skyscrapers. Blinking, you pause and watch as he points to you, then the tree, then back to you once more.

“You're... asking me why I'm not going back to the tree?” you guess.

Huffing, the man simply folds his arms across a broad, silver chest and stares at you expectantly.

Just then, you're struck by a thought and a slow frown creeps across your forehead. How would this stranger know that you came from the maker tree?

He hasn't done anything wrong, so far. But something about him doesn't sit quite right with you.

“I... I can't go back. Not yet.” You edge around him, never once turning your back. “You don't understand, I need to get more supplies before I return.”

Your unusual rescuer doesn't seem to like that response one bit. His eyes suddenly flash white-hot and he takes a single stride towards you, reaching out to grip your shoulder and only holding it tighter when you try to pull away. This time, he raises his other hand slowly and jabs a finger right in your face, centimetres from the tip of your nose before the appendage swings in a wide arc towards the maker tree.

Ah. He wasn't asking you why you weren't going straight back to the maker tree.

In fact, you don't think he was asking anything at all.

As though he'd read your mind, the armoured brute suddenly swivels you towards the tree and moves his hand down to give you a gentle yet direct nudge in the small of your back.

Apparently, this is nonnegotiable.

“Okay, okay! No need to push. I'm going.”

Beneath his mask, you don't see the man's frown ease, nor the way his lips part to release a small sigh of relief.

---

At the risk of sounding like his eldest brother, Strife reminds himself to give you the sternest talking to you've likely ever received once he delivers you back to the safety of Ulthane's tree. 

As Jones, of course. 

As Jones. 

Fandom PSAs

Dont’ Like, Don’t Read

or DL; DR

You are responsible for curating your own online experience.

If something upsets you, makes you angry or queasy or triggers you, stop reading/looking at it. Avoid things that might make you feel that way.

Learn to use the Sort and Filter function on AO3, especially the Exclude tools.

On social media, block and mute accounts / tags / words when necessary.

If you hated something, you don’t need to tell that to the creator or start pointing fingers at them publicly.

The Back button is free. Use it.

Addendum:

Yes, for this to work, creators need to tag their works accordingly, so that people know what sort of content they are about to engage with and can nope out if necessary.

I will probably make another PSA about the importance of proper tagging later.

Ship And Let Ship

or SALS

You are allowed to ship whatever you want.

Everyone else is also allowed to ship whatever they want.

You are entitled to dislike or even hate a ship. If you want to do this online, in public, don’t use the ship tags for hate posts.

If you see someone posting about a ship they like and you don’t, there is no need for you to start arguing with them in their replies / comments / QRTs / reblogs. Don’t throw your hate in their face.

Do not harass fan creators or fans for shipping something you disapprove.

All of this also applies to liking / disliking an individual character.

Addendum:

”I agree with this, except when…”

No, then you are NOT agreeing with this.

Let me make this VERY clear. There are NO exceptions. None.

You don’t EVER harass real people over pixels.

If you disagree with this, kindly block and move on.

Your Kink Is Not My Kink

or YKINMK / YKINMKATO

The longer version is ”Your Kink Is Not My Kink And That’s Okay”.

People have different tastes. Not everything is for everybody.

Even if you don’t like a specific kink, other people are still allowed to use it in their creations.

You are entitled to dislike kinky content and think that it’s ”weird”.

Don’t kink shame or judge people based on their kinks.

This goes both ways: your kink is not someone else’s kink, so don’t push it onto those who are not into it.

Be Kind

or Don’t Be An Asshole

Focus on the things you like instead of the things you hate.

Create and unite instead of destroying and dividing.

Don’t harass real people over fictional things.

Stop stirring up petty drama just to get some attention on social media.

Stop trying to ”win”. Fandom is not a competition.

Remember that your own experiences aren’t universally shared. Your perception of things can differ from someone else’s, but that doesn’t mean either of you is necessarily wrong.

raise a glass to the posts you love that end up deleted. to the fanart and fanfics you lose track of and can't locate. to the blogs you used to look through that ended up unexpectedly disappearing. to the things you didn't archive because you always assumed they'd be there.

where barry allen indirectly has been an accessory for rogue robberies on multiple occasions. the irony that he’s the flash is not lost on him

“hold the bag, bud” the weather wizard shouts under a squall of hail

barry rolls his eyes heavenward, another trip to the bank ruined. maybe one day he’ll open that savings account…

“sweetie - get the door” purrs the golden glider with her gun as barry finds himself in another armed robbery. he should have ordered iris’s gift of amazon instead - christmas shopping will never get done

having a dual identity has never been so frustrating

“allen - you’re a csi, why are you always part of these crime scenes?” barks captain singh wearily. barry shrugs helplessly, how was he supposed to know captain cold would rob the first national bank closest to jitters during the morning rush

it's been said before and i'm sure said better than i can phrase it. but really, really - if you like making "i'm going to kill myself" jokes, please try switching to being ironically conceited instead.

anytime something goes wrong, say things like "ah well at least i'm beautiful and charming and everyone loves me." when you forget something, try "my big huge brain is so smart and thinking about too many other very big wizardly thoughts you wouldn't even understand." when you're frustrated by one of your symptoms, start talking like you're in My Immortal. "Life has come for me but my eyes are beautiful pools of gorgeous fire and my hair is amazing. I stuck my middle finger up at life and told it to fuck off and it did."

just... try it for a month or two. try saying the most absurdly self-congratulatory shit you can think of.

i know it's tempting to make suicide or self-harm jokes. and for me at least, a decade ago (!) when someone suggested i stop making those kinds of jokes, i was kind of at a loss for what to replace them with. i wanted to make light of these moments, but genuinely (at the time) my first thought really was suicidal ideation. there was a part of me that even felt like ... i was kind of "making light" of that voice. that if i could say i want to die lol, it would help take the sting out of that genuine (albeit passive) desire. like i could turn my illness into a joke.

when i started complimenting myself instead, it felt awkward and stupid. it felt really, really ironic. what i was actually saying was nobody would ever think this stuff about me, that's what makes it so fucking funny.

but. the effect was immediate. first thing i noticed was the people around me. when i dropped a glass and said ah my skin is too beautiful and sleek the glass has swooned and broken for me, other people were suddenly overjoyed to jump in with the joke. rather than making an awkward moment, we'd both start cracking up. ah princess sleek hands, i've heard of you.

i was 19. i hadn't noticed i'd been making others tense when i said i want it all to end. i know now that it's incredibly hard to know how to walk that moment - do you talk to them about your concern? do you potentially make them uncomfortable by asking if they're okay? do you ignore the situation? do you help them pick up the glass, or do they need to do it by themselves? are they genuinely made suicidal over this small moment? and most importantly, how do you - without professional training or supplies - actually help?

most people want to help you pick up the glass in your life, they just have no fucking idea how to do it. they don't want to make anything worse. they don't want to make assumptions about you. they love you, they're scared for you - and being scared makes people kind of freeze up. it's not because they don't love you. it's because they do.

now when something bad happens, my first thought is how can i make a stupid joke about this. it isn't my brain saying you're a dumb fucking bitch. i spend more time laughing. i spend more time being gentle with myself. i spend more time feeling good.

and the thing is - what's kind of funny - is that you'd be surprised by how many people agree with you. the first time i said i'm too pretty to understand that, someone else said to be fair you're the prettiest person in this room. i promise - you really don't know how kindly your friends see you. but they love you for a reason. they sort of reverse-velveteen-rabbit you. your weird and ugly spots fade away and you just become... the love they want to give you.

go love yourself ironically. the worst thing that happens is that you end up tricking your reflection into actually loving you.

The truth is your fave will never be this cool and that is why you're all crying, vomiting and seething at this man's mere existence:

I love the fact that the Madara fandom never downplay his war criminal's record. Like, go babe, go! Enslave them, kill them all, let your repressed feelings express themselves in meteor shape. I support you and I love you.

idk if this is a young fan thing or new fandom culture but some of yall think fics are abandoned way too quickly. a few months or a year or two is not unusual to go without a fic update. sometimes fics take longer to write, other times writers have rl events, or maybe there's multiple fics and one gets more priority. there are tons of reasons for fics not to be updated every week or every month. it also isn't uncommon for people to come back and update fics after a number of years—ive read updates that took five, or ten years. people's lives change, but they still want to tell their stories. personally, i never consider a fic abandoned unless the author has said so; though if it's been a few years i manage my expectations. but a last update being a year ago is... generally not a sign that a writer has abandoned their fic

This is so helpful when designing characters with wings

This week: Form follows function! You can tell a lot about a bird by its wings.