#might continue this in bits and pieces

[orbitariums]

rum punch | patrick zweig x black fem reader

writing this because patrick is definitely the type to text you like “if you wanna pull up just to get fucked here’s the addy”

obsessed with this song right now (rump punch by cash cobain) and listened to it over and over while writing this. i recommend listening to compliment your reading experience 🙏🏾 it’s sooo challengers especially patrick zweig coded. let’s review: “top five nasty, you ain’t even gotta ask me” and “soon as you leave i miss u too, like damn”; “don’t be asking questions like a interview cuz you really know what we finna do”...  “i just made her cum twice you ain’t make her cum once”?!!>!##? that’s patrick DOWN. sorry it must be said… 

so a little drabble-ish thing is ahead! contains: cheating (ooops), degradation, smut

it started when you started dating your current boyfriend, or at least that’s what you would tell yourselves to make you feel better about the whole ordeal — not that patrick cared much to begin with. but anybody who knew you and patrick knew that this had been going on for far longer than either of you would care to admit, or that either of you had enough introspective ability to even realize. every single playful shove, every time you squeezed his hand to deflect from parting at the end of a hangout, the way he’d stack his legs on top of yours while you were studying even though he knew you “hated” it, his thumb circling your hand, your head on his shoulder during a late night movie sesh with art and tashi, eyes fluttering closed until you found sleepy heaven in the perfect crevice of his neck. nearly every time you saw each other, which was frequent, you were touching without touching. art, who wasn’t one to make crass comments often, would always tell patrick: “it wouldn’t even make a difference, you should just go ahead and fuck each other. the shit you two do is more than just sex.”

it was 11:16 pm when you called him. your boyfriend had sped off in the middle of the night in a fit of anger after an intense argument about the same thing for the hundredth time. you were so tired. you’d been so close to texting or calling him before, but you refrained — you didn’t want things between the two of you to get messy when nothing in your life was going right in the first place. but now that you were nearly slumped against the wall with tears hot against your face, so tired beyond comprehension, you could blame it on the delirium brought on by exhaustion. you told yourself you just needed the comfort of your close friend, who always made you laugh.

“patrick, can i come over?” you’d asked, your voice trembling, your face buried in your sweater sleeve. 

patrick had never heard you sound so upset — he’d never even seen you cry. when you were around him, you were always so jovial and giggly. so when he heard your voice on the phone, so late at night, sounding so fragile and fractured, his eyebrows immediately knit together with concern, and he sat up on his couch. 

“yn, are you okay? is everything alright, you sound—”

“i’m fine,” you sniffled, breath catching on your voice multiple times. “just-just need a friend. please, can i come over?”

you couldn’t see it, but his features softened, and some wedge in his heart seemed to shift over,

“yeah. yeah, of course you can.”

he was so confused, but just glad to know that you were at least okay, taking pride in the fact that he was who you wanted to be around, whatever was going on. he made some rushed efforts to tidy up his bachelor apartment, sweeping crumbs under the rug, tucking in pillows on the couch, throwing yesterday’s takeout into the overflowing trashcan, and swiping the trash off his coffee table. 

he couldn’t believe how shrunken you looked when you appeared in front of his door that night, clad in an oversized stanford hoodie and sweatpants, slippers, tears still welling up in your eyes. this couldn’t be the same yn pushing him off of her with excessive force and maniacally cackling at his stupid jokes. 

“wh-”

before he could get a word out, you threw your arms around your waist, plopping your head down on his chest. he stilled for a moment out of shock, then relaxed into your touch, embracing you with his arms around your shoulders and down your back, holding you because he knew that’s what you needed right now. 

and then you were pulling away, sniffling and wiping away your tears, finally feeling some ounce of comfort now that you were with him. you knew, you knew, this was what you needed, as much as you had resisted this very thing. 

“it’s chris,” you said, moving past him and inside his apartment, groaning as you plunked down onto the couch. 

now, looking out the open door at the hallway ahead of him, patrick was nodding to himself silently, like he had come to some realization. he sat beside you, and you turned to him with a pout. and it was then that patrick knew he was not a good man for thinking about how pretty you looked with tears streaking your face and your lips pressed together in a girlish pout. 

“he’s like… intimidated by me or something. every single thing i tell him about my day, about work, about my friends, my wins… he’s always finding some thing to harp on like i’m some villain stopping him from achieving his finance bro dreams. he hates that i’m living my life because he isn’t living his yet. so every thing i earn, he just picks it apart and tears it down, questions my motives for everything.”

“he’s a dick, alright?” patrick said, in that ever so frank tone that you honestly missed, and wished you could hear during these arguments with your boyfriend. “yn, i’d never… we wouldn’t treat you like that, me and art and tashi. we’re your real friends, we celebrate you. that’s how a relationship’s supposed to go. he’s a stupid fuck.”

you grinned a bit at his correction, the corner of your lips turning up.

“i know you wouldn’t.”

“can i ask you something though, yn?”

“mhm?” you looked up at him with such innocent doe eyes that he didn’t want to call bullshit, but he was calling bullshit. 

“why… why’d you come over here? why not to tashi or your mom’s or… anyone else? why me?”

you sighed deeply, shaking your head,

“because, patrick, i… i just… want you right now.”

his face impossibly close to yours, intruding your senses and all your walls before you even realized they were up. 

“how do you want me?” he asked, his voice the softest it had ever been, his breath tickling your cheek. 

you were hoping you wouldn’t have to finish your sentence, and patrick knew it — his hands gripped the sides of your face with a stronghold, and then your lips were crashing against each other like a wave coming to the tide, foaming and sputtering and wetting the cracked sand at the shore. and it didn’t take long before you were climbing on top of him and straddling him, your clothes falling off one by one. his rough hand clutching your breast and squeezing, another in your panties navigating your clit like a fucking expert, making your back arch against the air. then your legs by your head as patrick drove himself into you, tender and slow and making you see stars instead of his face and the ceiling. fucking every tear out of you, turning your sobs of pain into sobs of pleasure. your moans were like a choir to him, licking flames against his earlobes each time you whimpered his name, leaving little half-circle imprints in his back with his nails. sweat dripping down his forehead as he clutched his eyes shut and tried not to come too fast, tried not to let the way you wrapped around him like a fucking snake— pussy squeezing his cock, legs trapping him inside you, hands roaming his back like new found land — make him lose focus. 

“fuck, your fucking moans. d’you have any idea how much i’ve thought about this? f- fuck, if you come to me crying again, i’m not gonna go so easy on you.”

if he had an ounce of self-respect, he’d have stopped you after the first time (he didn’t have the discipline to deny you completely), but something about him stirred at the unpredictable predictability of it all. he knew that at least once a week, you’d come crying to him over something your asshole boyfriend did to you, it was just a matter of what day of the week. 

he liked when you came over on friday nights most, because more often than not you’d stay the night, sometimes the weekend, making the excuse to your boyfriend that you were sleeping over at a girlfriend or your mother’s house. but really you were just spending the whole weekend getting fucked by your recovery boyfriend patrick, who would scrape up the little money he had to order food from your favorite thai restaurant every night and watch what were, in his opinion, the most insipid movies he’d ever seen — because he knew that less than halfway through you’d be split open on his cock, sobbing with pleasure into his shoulder as princess diaries became a distant echo in the background. his hand on the small of your back, his vision glazing over as he stares ahead at the tv, too enraptured by the sweet whimpers you make while you’re (attempting to) ride him, the sounds of your slick pussy swallowing him whole in slow intervals, panting and gasping as he speared you open because he was: “so big, patrick you’re so big.”

he’ll snap out of it then, find his hands wrapped around your waist and his lips buried in the crook of your neck,

“it’s okay, baby. you can take me.”

“i’m trying,” you wailed, the frustration so clear in your voice that it almost made him laugh. 

instead, he wrapped his hands around your waist firmly, leading you down onto his cock himself. 

“fuck!” you shouted out, practically collapsing forward onto him. “patrick, please—”

“if you can come to me crying just to get dick, you can take it.”

you gasped at the directness of his words, punching yourself for how much it turned you on. and he knew it too, by the way your pussy throbbed around his dick. you couldn’t see his face, but you could practically hear the shit-eating smirk in his voice as he grabbed your asscheek,

“yeah, your pussy loves it though. and you love being my little slut behind closed doors when your boyfriend isn’t acting right.”

you couldn’t control the moan that tumbled out of your lips when he said that, and definitely not the screech you let out when he started to thrust up, jackhammering into you so his cock reached the hilt. 

“that what you wanted?”

“yes, yes!” you wailed, nodding desperately, positively wrecked as your head practically hung over his shoulder, enveloped in a world of pleasure. 

“yeah… i know…”

and sometimes he won't be so nice. he'll be damn near using your pussy like a fleshlight, his body practically covering yours as he fucks you like an animal, hard and fast and rough, your pussy squelching around his cock each time he rams it into you. he'll use you like he's the one that needs comforting, like your pussy is the only safe haven he knows. and it's only fair, the way you hide out in his house and act like his dick is your life source. he fucks you like he's an athlete and this is his sport, tennis be damned. he'll degrade you anyway he knows how — because he knows you love it, knows it makes you finish two times as fast.

"he doesn't fuck you like this."

"you're such a fucking slut. come over here crying acting like you don't pull up just to get fucked." he'll laugh as he says this, and you want to smack his chest in indignation, but you can't manage anything but moans.

“you’re such a good girl. letting me use this pussy when i want.”

"there you go, squeeze my cock like it's yours."

"pussy's so greedy, getting fucked by the both of us. still so fucking tight."

"your boyfriend's probably wondering where you are." this has made you come twice now.

"whose pussy is it?" (and even though you have a man, you tell him it's his every time. sometimes he doesn't even need to ask, sometimes he fucks you so good that you just scream out: "it's your pussy — it's your pussy, daddy", and he'll chuckle and say: "i know.").

and you let him say these things and more, because he fucks you like no one ever has, like he knows something you told him in complete and total secrecy. like it's something so complex — but all it ever takes is one touch.

your friends have noticed something is different between you two, but it's honestly not a big jump from before — only this time, you guys sealed the deal and were actually fucking now. of course, patrick can't keep his mouth closed for long and ends up bragging to art, and you tell tashi because she's one of the girls, and now there's this unspoken understand between all of you. but no one feels the need to intervene, because honestly... it makes sense.

and you’ll have a conversation with him every other time, telling him “we have to stop doing this.” and one day he replies, 

“yn. not to be a dick or anything, but you’re the one who calls me. you act like you're coming over for comfort, but we both know it's my dick doing all the comforting."

and you know it’s true, you know patrick is right even if he is an asshole. but you won’t let that stop you from texting him: thai food and a movie? everytime your boyfriend fucks up. and patrick won't stop you either.

[animaxvi]

runs around in circles ✨ Here he issss, tis ballet student Wiku 🩰 to go with contemporary dance student Sora 🎉

[luffysprincess]

⋆˙⟡ Cyno meets his Sumerian Princess ⟢

[padfootastic]

Forever mine

(james/sirius; loose soulmate au; ruthless, protective sirius!!)

The first time Sirius meets his soulmate is when he’s dying in his arms. 

The thought ‘I’ll end whoever touched you’ hit him with such dizzying force, he had to brace himself against the ground for a minute. 

Sirius hadn’t ever been particularly aggressive, had tried hard to stay away from the murderhurtviolence running through his blood, but in that moment—in that moment, he imagined he was feeling what every single Black had for centuries before him and would continue to do so after.

It was supposed to be a simple errand--a beer run for Regulus who refused to get off his couch until he became one with the upholstery. It wasn't supposed to be like this, him kneeling on the ground, soaked in blood and rain, praying to a god he hadn't believed in three minutes ago

The man--and who would've thought of that huh?-- was tall. Not as tall as him, but certainly far, far larger. Ropes of muscle travelled the length of his well tanned arm; thick, toned thighs lying still on the pavement. For one, obnoxious second, Sirius wondered about the possibility of being picked up and twirled around before shutting that train of thought down real quick. 

How utterly delusional, and he wasn't even the one bleeding out.

He was dressed in athletic wear--perhaps out for an evening jog?--and the fabric was molded to every crevice of his body, thanks to the rain. Before he'd passed out, Sirius had the opportunity, the honor, of seeing huge, brown eyes staring up at him with desperate pleading shining through them.

And that thought, that memory, was what got his blood boiling all over again. 

How dare his soulmate lie here, bleeding, on the edge of death if the holes in his chest were anything to go by, and desperate and alone? If Sirius hadn’t been out for fucking alcohol, if Reg hadnt been a depressed, heartbroken parasite in his house, if that asshole Evan hadn't cheated on his baby brother--if, if, if. 

His soulmate could've...would've been alone, dying, dead.

Sirius slowly unclenched his trembling fingers, letting go of the deathly cold fingers sticky with blood. His other hand was still wrapped around the man's--his soulmate's--back, helping him lean back against Sirius' chest. A sort of quiet, dangerous thrum filled his body, taking away all the restlessness from before. He didn't know what was about to happen next, how the man would pull through, how he would pull through. But he knew this: whoever did this would rue the day they were born. 

 He made two phone calls. 

First, The ambulance--a man is dying, come as quick as possible, I dont know how long he has left. 

 Next, his father. 

 'Father.'

'Son.'

'I need you to find someone for me.'

And that was it. Sirius might've had his differences with his family, might've run away from them in multiple fits of pique, might've even been threatened to high heaven and back but at the end of the day he was still a Black and Blacks looked out for each other. Rule number one. As long as he had blood running through his veins--and perhaps even after that--there was nothing on Earth that could keep them away from each other. 

John Doe. 

That's what it said on the patient chart. John fucking Doe.

All those blood tests, all the evaluations, and what use was it for if they couldn't even conduct one measly identification? 

Sirius resisted the urge to growl out loud; he wanted to throw something, wanted to scream the place down until something happened, but he barely controlled himself.

No. That wasn't the way to go about this. 

Dammit, this soulmate business was quite annoying. He hadn't felt this many emotions in such a short span of time, with such intensity, for quite some time. Perhaps never. That's what made him so deadly as a businessman. Sirius had never once needed to raise his voice, or his hand, to get something done. 

Which is what made his sudden penchant for violence so...jarring. He didn't know how to control it, couldn't keep the bloodlust from seeping into his thoughts. He had half a mind to check his reflection in a mirror--surely his eyes, usually a dark grey, would've turned red by now at the force of his impulses? 

He shook his head at the ridiculous thought, wondering when he'd lost his mind.

(He knew when. It was the moment he heard the bang-bang-bang, the thump of someone falling onto the pavement. It was when he looked down and felt his own flesh ache in response to the holes left in his soulmate's body. It was the outpouring of years of emotions he hadn't even known he'd repressed) 

"Mr...Black?" A hesitant voice brought him back from his memories, making him internally grateful for the distraction. He stood up to face the doctor looking at him with a weird look on his face. Sirius could see why--here he was, dressed in a half undone suit, blood soaking his satin shirt, probably dotted all across the rest of his body, and of course, the dirt stains on his knees. Not to mention, the rain had created an even bigger mess of him. The stares he was getting were quite understandable, really. 

"That's me, yes." 

"Er--the man you came with--are you quite sure you have no idea who he is?" 

This time, Sirius didn't resist the rumbling of his voice as he ground out, "Like I told your receptionist, then a nurse, and finally the constable after that, I found him, just like this, on the pavement. Don’t make me repeat it again for the sake of your incompetence. Now, what is the status of his condition?" 

The doctor cleared his throat, pulling at the knot on his tie. "Well, then, uh. Mr. Black, I'm afraid I can't disclose that information--patient confidentiality, I'm sure you understand." He let out a little laugh at that, as if this was all a big fucking joke, and turned away. 

Like Sirius would let him leave. 

In two quick strides, he'd reached the doctor's side, deftly pulling him into a corridor off the side, pushing him against the wall as soon as they were out of sight. 

"Listen here, Doc," he sneered, pushing him back with his forearm against his chest, "That man in there? He's my soulmate." The doctor paled at the word, igniting dark satisfaction in him. Somewhere inside, deep down, Sirius knew he couldn't have known, but in that moment, it didn't matter. "So you can take your 'patient confidentiality' and shove it up your arse, got it?"

The man nodded so hard it was a wonder his head didn’t fall off to the ground. 

“Un-Unconscious, sir. He’s been bleeding out for too long,” the doctor stuttered out finally, “We can’t guarantee any—”

Sirius pushed harder, cutting him off midway. “Finish that sentence and I’ll cut off your tongue and stuff it down your throat.” The clack of the man’s teeth shutting close filled him with more satisfaction than it probably should have. The silence, however, was too much of a relief for him to think about that just yet. 

No guarantee, he says. He’ll show him ‘no guarantee’. 

Sirius took a deep breath and stepped back, straightening his shirt as he did. He waited for the doctor to compose himself before lifting one hand to smoothen the wrinkles on his coat, ignoring the flinch. Clearing his throat, he said, “Doc. I hope you know who I am?” 

No response except a wrinkled brow. 

“Sirius Black, heir and CEO of Cassiopeia Industries,” he clarified and sure enough, the man went paler than what should’ve been humanly possible. Sirius’ smile was thin, dangerous. “Yes, I see you’ve heard of us. Good, I’m glad. It’ll make this much smoother then.” 

He leaned in closer, close enough he could smell the sweat beading along the man’s neck, the sourness of his breath, could see the dilated pupils. “So you know what I can, and will, do to you if you can’t ‘guarantee’ my soulmate’s life, yes?” 

He didn’t have to say much else then, not after the doctor’s vigorous nods and assurances. 

There were other things to do, after all.

He was sitting on the uncomfortable plastic bench, leg tapping an annoying rhythm on the linoleum, when a pair of sleek, polished shoes entered his vision. Sirius released the breath he’d been holding in since the minute this evening started. 

Father was here.

“Sirius.” 

“Father,” he replied, standing up for their customary handshake. Not too firm, never too loose. Know your place in the world and be secure in that knowledge. Lessons he’d had drilled into his head since before he could speak. 

(He wondered what his soulmate’s handshake would be like?) 

“I’ve got the information you asked for, though I can’t wonder why you would need to get in touch with what seems like, on the surface, a common street thug,” Father said with his usual upturned lip. His eyebrows were slightly raised, which was about as much emotion as he allowed himself to show in public. 

Sirius’ eyes were fixed on a point slightly to the left of his head, on the cream-coloured wall with years of misuse plastered across it in dark spots. “I was out for…an errand today—”

“That brother of yours still drinking his swill, I take it,” came the expected comment. He paid it no mind. 

“And just outside the shop, this man…he was—shot. Four times. Seemed personal.” Sirius’ voice was cold, clinical, recounting with perfect clarity and none of the panic that seemed to be seeping into every inch of him. 

“And you thought today was a nice day to become a good samaritan?” His father’s disdain for a good samaritan was clear in the tone of his voice. Sirius almost smiled at the familiarity of it. There had been many family dinners where he’d suffered through his fathers disgust for ‘a bunch of nosy do-gooders with neither a penny nor any dignity to their name, poking their limbs in where it’s not needed.’ 

“Not exactly, no,” Sirius stalled, knowing he wouldn’t be able to do so much longer. Already, he could see the impatience lining Orion Black’s countenance, the foot slowly tapping on the floor, expecting, no—demanding an answer. “It was my…soulmate. I could feel it. He’s in there right now—“ he tilted his head towards the OR “—and they don’t have ‘any guarantees’ supposedly,”

At any other time, Sirius would’ve been ashamed, no, horrified at the way his voice cracked at the end, wouldn’t have been able to look his father in the eye for a week afterwards but just like his patience had disappeared in the course of his evening, so had his shame, it seems. 

But he couldn’t muster it this time. Not even when his father’s lip curled farther up at the vulgar display of emotion. He didn’t say anything, though, probably dredging up the last of his humanity to do so—merely put a hand into his coat and pulled out a plain black envelope. 

“Do clean up, Sirius, this sort of behaviour is most unbecoming of you.” With one last parting shot, he left the envelope in Sirius’ hands and left, just as imperiously as he’d entered.

Sirius smoothed one hand over the soft planes of the mystery man’s cheeks, touch featherlight and ready to withdraw at a moment’s notice if needed. 

He looked…peaceful, completely at odds with the prognosis clutched in Sirius’ other hand, like his heart wasn’t on the verge of giving up at any time. It was a cruel illusion, a painful distortion of reality, and yet, Sirius wanted it for as long as he could have it. 

“How I’ve looked for you, darling,” he whispered, thumb running repetitive circles over the man’s cheek. “And now that I’ve found you…” 

“Are we doomed to forever live like this?” 

Perhaps if this was a movie, that would be the cue for his soulmate to wake up, to dramatically open his eyes and proclaim his love for Sirius; they’d take each other in their arms and never let go, savor the kind of pleasure that only the other half of your soul can give you. 

But this wasn’t a movie, and Sirius was no hero.

He left soon after that, unable to look, helpless to do anything but. 

It was in the car that he opened the envelope for the first time. It contained two things: a slip of paper with a name and address on it, and a photograph, black and white and grainy, like it was taken with a cheap instant camera. 

He traced one finger over the smiling face, comparing it to the unnatural stillness of the man he’d just left behind, and clenched his jaw. Throwing the photo across the seat, he put the car in reverse and peeled out of the parking lot. 

Tom Riddle didn’t know what was waiting for him. 

“Who are you?” The harsh words were accompanied by a gun aimed straight at his head. Sirius couldn’t be less bothered, however. From the way the man’s eyes were dilated, unable to focus on one point, to his shaking hands that couldn’t even grasp the revolver properly, to the disarray of his jet black hair and clothes—it was safe to deduce that he was more of a danger to himself than anyone else. That coffee table off to the side, for example, looked particularly menacing if he knocked himself over it, which judging by the sway in his frame, he seemed quite likely to. 

“You don’t need to know that, Mr. Riddle,” he replied in a calm, soothing voice. He looked down, adjusting his cufflinks as he spoke. “I’m here for one thing and you’re going to give it to me.” 

“I don’t swing that way, honey,” Riddle slurred, making Sirius grimace in response. The man wasn’t…unfortunate looking but even if he hadn’t found his soulmate—and loved him on the spot—Riddle was not his type. His tastes tended to run a bit more discerning than drunkards in old, run-down motels who couldn’t even hold a firearm properly. 

(Could James hold a gun, he thinks absently. He could teach him, if he wanted, would love to see the way his muscles move as he pressed down on the trigger—) 

“And I’m sure mankind is glad for that,” he said dryly.

“You—” Riddle spluttered, stumbling forward, narrowly escaping the corner of the table (sadly). Sirius looked on in disgust, wondering how vermin like this could’ve even gotten near his wonderful, beautiful soulmate, close enough to not just hurt him but do so badly enough that he’s lying on his deathbed, waiting for divine intervention to save him. 

“This man.” Sirius held up his phone, where a photo of the mystery man lying on the hospital bed, thankfully cleaned of all blood and grime, is looking out at them. “Who is he?” 

“No clue, buddy,” Riddle tried to shrug but Sirius wasn’t having any of it. His patience was already at an all time low and now this clown’s shenanigans weren’t helping. 

“So help me, God, if you don’t tell me right now who he is and why you shot him four fucking times—“ Sirius threatened, finally getting up from his not-so-comfortable perch on the windowsill. Riddle only shrugged again, taking a step back. 

That’s it. 

Sirius moved forward, quick enough to probably seem like a blur to Riddle’s drink-addled mind. In a single manoeuver, he had the man turned around and pushed against the wall, face smushed into the peeling paint. His hands were held in a bruising grip in one of Sirius’ and he gun was safely out of reach from where it had clattered on the floor. Judging by the lightness of it, it had never even been a threat. 

“I’m running out of patience, honey,” he crooned. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to get creative now.” 

Saying that, he stepped back a little, just enough that he could pull Riddle’s index finger back, back, back until a loud crack and a sob filled the air. 

Neither the cracks nor the sobs stopped for the rest of the night.

"More blood, Sirius?" 

Sirius didn't respond, only continued dabbing at the stained blood on his shirt--his second of the day. 

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy!" His father's voice echoed sharply in the empty room. He hated being ignored; that's why Sirius did it, after all. 

"Thanks for the help, Father, I really appreciate it," he said instead. Once he was satisfied that as many of the stains as possible had been removed, he moved onto his hands, lip curling at the dried flakes stuck under his nails. This was always the worst part about these things. 

"And what of all this...soulmate business, then?" 

"What about it?" Sirius looked up, then, meeting his father's eyes through the mirror, grey clashing against grey. 

"Well, what're you going to do?" His father was neutral as ever, but Sirius knew him well enough to see the glint of curiosity in his calculating gaze. 

"What anyone else does with their soulmate, I believe." The resounding sigh at his glib answer made him snicker into his fist. Sirius might be old and powerful enough to make the world tremble at his feet but there was a unique joy in upsetting his father's composure that never lost its charm. 

"Sirius." 

"Father." It was his turn to sigh this time as he finally turned around, taking out his handkerchief as he did. "Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to go in there, pray to a God neither you nor I believe in but hopefully he does, and sit by his bedside for as long as it takes. Everything else can wait." 

"The business?" 

"We have a board for a reason, incompetent as they might be on a  good day," he fired back. 

"Your brother withering away in your flat?" 

"Nothing new there," Sirius scoffed. "Reg'll be right as rain in a few days. Then he'll be back on his usual cycle of finding another terrible partner, getting cheated on, and coming right back to nest on my lumpy couch."

"That thing really is terribly lumpy," Father muttered under his breath before straightening up with a firm nod. "Very well, then. I wish you the best of luck. Bring your young man around for lunch when he wakes up. I'm sure your Mother would like to examine him." 

Sirius couldn't articulate, in that moment, how much it meant to him that his father said 'when' instead of 'if’ he wakes up. That was something he hadn't even considered so far, afraid he'd break at the slightest possibility that he could lose his soulmate just as he'd found him, didn't even want to put the thought out into the universe and here was his father, perhaps the most self-assured, confident man he knew, saying it casual-as-you-please. 

 He was still reeling from the comment when his father took his leave, getting the last word in as he did, per usual. "And try and get your brother with you, yes? Kreacher would be delighted to see his 'Young Master'."

 It took three days for something to give.  

Every single day, Sirius could be found either sitting in the uncomfortable chair beside his mate's bed, holding his hand, stroking his hair, rubbing his thumb against his hand. There was a...tenderness in him now, one he'd never thought himself capable of. He both loathed and admired it; loathed, because the one person who should be receiving it was unable to, admired because it was a wondrous feeling, this lightness in his chest, the innate urge to give, without expecting anything in return. 

Sirius had been a career businessman, and casual criminal, since he came out of the womb. This was an entirely novel experience for him and he couldn't even enjoy it, for fuck's sake. 

"Wake up, goddammit.” he burst out on the third day of no activity, of hearing the shallow, almost nonexistent breaths of his mystery man amplified by the machines hooked up to him. “I need you, you bastard.”

So focused was he on those wires and the beeping machines and the sterile fucking room that he almost missed it. He wouldn't ever have forgiven himself if he had. 

"Prefer...darling...I think," a voice croaked. The most beautiful, wonderful sound in the world. 

"What--" Sirius whispered in wonder, staring unblinkingly at the wide brown eyes looking back at him, exhausted and drooping and red-rimmed but open. Alive. 

"You called me...darling..." The man repeated, less confident this time, a crease forming between his brows. "Or did I--?"

Sirius lurched forward, grabbing his face desperately with both of his, ready to do anything to get the frown off his face. "No, no, I did--that is, I called you that--darling--that was me. I did it." 

He couldn't even be horrified at the uncharacteristic stuttering, unable to care about anything except the shy smile blooming on his soulmate's face, the warmth of it chasing away all the demons that had taken up residence in Sirius' head since that day.

"Oh," the man exhaled, biting his lip. Sirius leaned further in, entranced by the action.  

"I'm--I'm James." 

James. 

Finally. A name. The most perfect name. 

"James," Sirius breathed out, as if all the air had been punched out of his chest, leaving room only for jamesjamesjameshisoulmatejames. "I'm so happy to finally meet you." 

"I can...tell," he replied, still a bit shy, unsure. Sirius wanted to wrap him in bubble wrap forever and hide him away from the world. He also wanted to entirely devour him at the same time. It was a confusing set of impulses. "I could hear...everything...when I was...y'kno." He made an adorable gesture with his fingers, index finger circling in the air to signify his little...hibernation period. Sirius hoped he could refer to it so casually one day, though he doubted it. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." James nodded. "Though--I didn't…get your...name?" 

It was Sirius' turn to bite his lip now, not half as cute or sexy, he was sure, only conflicted. Would his soulmate be scared away? Would he even know who Sirius was? Did he want him to? "Sirius, uh--Sirius Black." 

There was a beat of silence, fraught with tension (or perhaps Sirius was just projecting?) before James' broke out in a wide smile, completely eclipsing the brilliance of the previous one. He extended one shaky hand towards Sirius from under the covers. 

"Hello, Sirius Black, it's very, very nice to finally meet you too." 

As if in a daze, completely unable to believe this was happening to him, Sirius placed his hand in James', feeling tiny pinpricks of electricity racing up his arm and down his body in a flash of delicious warmth. He could see, judging by the tremble in James' frame, that he felt the same. 

Their hands clasped (not too firm, never too loose) and Sirius knew everything would be just fine.

[self-insert-nightshade]

I did some doodles on class worksheets when I should've been taking notes and these are def not accurate (no refs in class) so all from memory/vibes.

One day ill have more than just doodles for these too cuties (and some for cove actually)

[thewindandthestars]

WHO ARE YOU ANON??? REVEAL THY SELF THIS INSTANCE ‼️

[exonerin]

14 and 29! For I am nosy. >]

Thank you so much!! Any nosiness is greatly appreciated here.

14: If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick?

Now, call me vain, but I considered this question before (before it was featured in the list and subsequently asked). Because there're some snippets, which I would love to see rather than read.

For Obikin, I work on a time-travel wip in which Darth Vader ends up back on Tatooine during the Phantom Menace after fighting Obi-Wan in the finale of the Obi-Wan Kenobi series.

And Padawan Obi-Wan practices some Jedi compassion on him while Qui-Gon is frolicking in Mos Espa with the Queen. Either way, in this fic, Darth Vader meets young Anakin Skywalker, who looks at his damaged limbs (courtesy of Obi-Wan Kenobi series Obi-Wan), and tells Darth Vader that "I can fix you."

And there's something about that scene with Darth Vader looking down at young Ani that would be pretty breathtaking to see (for me personally).

For a complete work, I'll say Unconditional Surrender (because I love the parallel about how Ren's and Hux's relationship progresses and how it's punctuated by how they end up pointing weapons at each other's throat over the course of the fic). It reads like a dance (spaced over 60k, so I'm not surprised no one caught it.

First, Ren raises his lightsaber to Hux's throat.

~20k later, Hux goes for Ren's throat with his dagger.

And another ~10k later, Ren lifts a hand to the hollow of Hux's throat.

It's a minor thing, but I love it, and I think seeing these scenes in close succession would be amazing.

29: Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

I shared the great fic of death before. And a significant chunk of it too, so that one is no longer a correct response to the question.

I tried to bestow upon you the honor of the first Obikin fanfic I started writing (a 20k behemoth) but I took a look at it and had to close the file. Some things are better off not shared ever.

So, I present an alternative version of what could have been my Obikin Big Bang (but ended in the trash, the entire idea scrapped when I remembered children frighten me. I would call it phobia, but I don't think it's an ungrounded fear). Excuse the grammar, I only did some light cleaning here and I'm not a native speaker.

==================================

Apologetically, he shrugged, the movement jostling Luke on his hip.

"I believe she has an appointment with Senator Chuchi," he told the handmaiden. He wasn't entirely sure. There were many things he wasn't sure about these days. Sometimes he believed he had never known anything, at all.

Sometimes, it felt like he was back in the middle of an active war zone, transported to the heights of the Clone Wars when he wouldn't know either.

When he had slept a full night for the last time, for example. Or when his last shower had been. And wasn't that a horrible question to ask oneself? He didn't know where Leia's stuffed tooka had gone, and she was unlikely to appear from the closet she had locked herself into until he found the stuffed animal for her.

Maybe it was in a towering pile of laundry blocking the hallway.

"Can you call her?" the handmaiden asked him.

Maneuvring around heaps of laundry he had started sorting in the hallway because the kitchen table was covered in the kids' handicrafts, he moved to the living room. He hadn't had an opportunity to upgrade his commlink, so it was still the scratched and scuffed one he had worn as a Jedi general.

Padmé's number was still encrypted on the device. The handmaiden followed him gingerly, grimacing at the mess. And Anakin swallowed around the lump in his throat that had taken up permanent residence there. Instead, he focused on the commlink in his hand, calling Padmé without any guarantee she would pick up the phone.

Padmé picked up on the seventh ring, barely intercepting the call before it would move to voicemail.

"Chancellor Amidala," Padmé greeted, sounding harried.

Anakin fumbled for words, sleep deprivation and the stupid lump in his throat making speech impossible.

"Uh… one of your handmaidens is here," he explained.

The handmaiden gestured to pass the comm over. Though loath to hand his comm over to a stranger, he complied. As soon as she pressed the comm close to her face, the handmaiden started rattling, falling back into a Nabooian dialect after a glance at Anakin. From the other end, Anakin could hear the muted sound of Padmé's voice.

He wasn't welcome here.

Feeling like an intruder in his own living room, Anakin returned to the hallway, relieved that Luke continued to sleep on his hip. He would need many washes to catch up with the laundry stacked high. If he didn't catch up, the damp towels would begin rotting, and all his laundry would smell musty no matter how often he washed it.

It was difficult to muster the energy to get started on this Sisyphean task. Laundry collected faster than he could sort through it and required more washing cycles than fit in a day.

Anakin Skywalker didn't resent his station in life.

His gaze drifted to the large balcony and landing platform visible through the opened door to the living room. Dully, he noted that either Luke or Leia had stuffed the fountain, which spewed pathetic streams of water intermittently. Later, he would have to fix it if his right hand decided to cooperate. Beyond the handmaiden and the potted plants, which had wilted since Anakin couldn't figure out how much water they needed, he could see the spires of the Jedi Temple.

The lump pressed harder on his sternum.

In his hold, Luke stirred.

Anakin Skywalker didn't regret his choices.

He just didn't know… anything anymore.

Once he had calmed down, all those years ago, he had felt too much shame to contact the Jedi again. No one had contacted him either. He inhaled shakily, his throat spasming around a pathetic sigh. He would never find closure, waking up in the dead of night from nightmares. However, these nightmares were no longer prophecies since his Force signature was as torn as ever.

"Thank you, Mister Amidala," the handmaiden said on her way out. "The Jedi will arrive in a few hours."

"What Jedi?" Anakin demanded, following her through the hallway back to the door. Suddenly, his heart pounded in his chest.

"Additional security detail," the handmaiden explained. "We cannot share this confidential information with a civilian."

Then, the door slammed shut behind her, rousing Luke.

"I'm not Mister Amidala," Anakin told the closed door. On his hip, Luke began crying, with loud sobs and wails. Only children could express their emotions so clearly, but Anakin contemplated joining Luke for a split second. Then, he straightened his back and bounced Luke on his hip.

"Hey, little guy, what's wrong?" he asked. The words were sandpaper in his throat. Luke needed his attention, whatever comfort Anakin could offer, or his son would lash out with the Force, and Anakin wouldn't realize until the lights shattered.

Thickly, he swallowed, past the point of trying to make sense of Luke's warbling. Anakin had led sieges on Outer Rim planets, had faced battalions of battle droids, led his men into bloody battles, and fought Sith Lords.

One apartment and two kids had him on his knees. Literally. Slowly, Anakin collapsed on his knees, careful to keep Luke balanced on his hip. If he cried, the twins would grow more upset, so he couldn't show his tears.

"Daddy?" Luke asked.

A shaky exhale fell from Anakin's lips.

"I'm here, Luke."

He wasn't. Not really. Physically, he was present, but his mind was lightyears away.

"I don't feel well," Luke whined.

Alarmed, Anakin jerked his head in Luke's direction, finally noticing the sugar smeared around Luke's mouth, his fingers and hair sticky and colorful from the artificial food coloring.

Hurriedly, Anakin scrambled to his feet, putting Luke down on the floor to check the kitchen. He stopped on the threshold, surveying the mess. A glass pot had toppled from a high shelf, its shards scattered over the floor. The gummy worms inside the pot -- a gift from a Senator who didn't have two hyperactive kids -- had all disappeared.

Luke waddled past him, trying to enter the hazard zone the kitchen had turned into.

"No," Anakin warned him, reaching out with a hand to stop Luke from entering the kitchen. "The glass is very sharp. If you cut yourself, it will hurt."

Luke lurched back, his big blue eyes watery, taking the cautioning very seriously. Even without his connection to the Force, Anakin could feel static build in the air. He could only brace himself for more destruction. Instead of a tantrum, however, Luke hiccuped suspiciously.

"I don't feel well," Luke repeated in a pathetic sniffle, and Anakin knew. Oh, he knew, but he could react in time. Luke threw up on the kitchen floor, covering the floor, the cupboards, and both their clothes.

Anakin stared at Luke, who stared back with wide eyes, unable to comprehend the weariness sweeping over Anakin.

"Okay," he sighed. "Okay," he repeated, needing to hear his own voice to ground himself.

"Okay," he said a third time, trying to channel resolve but only finding exhaustion.

"Oops," Luke responded.

Anakin just wanted to collapse on the floor and ignore his life. Unfortunately, Luke was covered in puke, so he couldn't tune out and pretend he was elsewhere if only for a handful of seconds.

Unbidden, his gaze returned to the spires of the Jedi Temple, barely visible from the kitchen.

"We will talk about this," he told Luke before sweeping his son into his arms to carry him to the bathroom.

Finally, Leia peeked from his closet. "What happened?" she asked.

"Your bother ate all the gummy worms and made himself sick," Anakin responded.

"That's unfair," Leia complained. "I wanted to eat them, too."

"I know, Leia," Anakin sighed, "I know."

Leia's bottom lip wobbled, and Anakin just didn't know. He had no quick fix for this situation.

"Later, okay?" he asked.

Leia frowned at him. "It's always later," she asserted. Anakin's heart shattered. He tried so hard, but he was failing both the twins and himself. "I want gummy worms," Leia grumbled before locking herself in the closet again.

"I do, too," Luke chimed in from his arms.

"Oh, no," Anakin assured him. "You've already eaten enough, Luke."

Luke disagreed, but Anakin wrangled him into the bath. As Luke came down from his sugar high and discovered his tummy ached, Anakin managed to get him in bed. Meanwhile, Leia had left her hiding spot, trailing after him as he gathered Luke's dirty clothes in his arms, grimacing at his soaked sleeves.

It was at this stage that the doorbell rang.

For a split second, Anakin considered ignoring the door, but Leia had already raced to the door, waiting there like an eager puppy until Anakin would open. So, he redistributed Luke's clothes in his arms and followed her.

When the door swung open, Anakin's gaze rested on cherry-leather boots, so familiar that his heart seized. Terror gripped his throat as he lifted his gaze over tan tunics until he met sky-blue eyes.

Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan's expression was neutral, giving Anakin nothing to work with.

"I…" Anakin swallowed thickly. "Why are you here?" he asked. Realizing how rude he sounded, he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, welcome?"

He shuffled aside, almost tripping over Leia, who regarded Obi-Wan from behind Anakin's legs.

"You should-- I mean… if you want to, you can come inside. I mean."

Anakin glanced over his shoulder at the dirty laundry piled high in the hallway.

"Thank you, Anakin," Obi-Wan responded warmly, and Anakin's shoulder relaxed fractionally.

"It's not usually so messy," he mumbled when Obi-Wan brushed past him. Anakin couldn't help inhaling deeply, relishing the scent of the Temple issues laundry detergent, leather, and Obi-Wan.

"Who are you?" Leia demanded, still clinging to Anakin's left leg.

Obi-Wan crouched, offering her a hand, which Leia watched suspiciously. "Hello there," he greeted her. "I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi, and your father and I… we know each other."

We know each other.

Anakin's heart clenched in his chest. Suddenly, his deep embarrassment about the state his apartment was in didn't matter anymore. All that was left was misery.

"Do you know him, daddy?" Leia asked him for confirmation.

Anakin closed his eyes briefly. Five years had granted him a new perspective and a deep remorse. He preferred to avoid remembering, staying away from both his best and worst memories. Shame clung to him, and Anakin suspected he would never be free from the guilt that overwhelmed him on bad days.

On good days, he would spend rare free minutes staring through the window, following the shuttles descending to the Jedi temple with greedy eyes.

He dropped his gaze, accidentally meeting Obi-Wan, and unable to tear his gaze away.

"Obi-Wan is my best friend," Anakin answered. He gently pushed between Leia's shoulder blades, guiding her closer to Obi-Wan who shucked the sleeve of his cloak back to offer Leia his hand. Leia nodded primly before accepting Obi-Wan's hand, shaking it with vigor. Obi-Wan's expression quirked funnily before he dropped his gaze to Leia, treating her to his attention.

Anakin remembered meeting Obi-Wan for the first time, deeply impressed by the Padawan braid and lightsaber clipped to Obi-Wan's belt. He could no longer hear the soft hum of Obi-Wan's kyber crystal, forever deaf to the crystal's song. He was so homesick, but he didn't deserve to go back. Furthermore, there was nothing to return to.

Yet, he didn't feel so forlorn when Obi-Wan smiled at his daughter, visibly amused by Leia. Suddenly, it was vital that Obi-Wan liked his children.

"Introduce yourself, Leia," Anakin urged, praying she would behave.

"I'm Leia," Leia told Obi-Wan. "Nice to meet you."

"Hello Leia," Obi-Wan greeted her with a smile. "I'm Obi-Wan."

[lolathepeacocklord]

HEY!!!!! WHAT IF I FINALLY SHOWED YOU GUYS MY OWN TAKE ON THE BUMBLED BEE, HUH?? WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF I DID THAT, HMM???

WHAT IF I SHOWED YOU GUYS MORE AND MORE OF MY FAN CONTINUITY, HUH?????? WHAT WOULD YOU DO THEN

[mothdotz]

Thought I’d post some old (ranging from 1–5 months ago) and unfinished art

Ignoring that infodump— I really like this one:

[eudikot]

Alternative versions (wordless, flat, no aura):

[cassioppenny]

winston is watching me work on the art for milesverse platinum

[clxckwork-sun-n-moon]

if it seems like I'm really quiet that's because I'm literally shoving all my free time into ArtFight

[kavehater]

It’s so interesting how you use a comparator which ties into your senses to compare a moment in time to the stark difference of how you’re feeling right now, if that makes any sense ? But then when you feel that momentary nice feeling you felt in the past you realise just how different things are now, and you knew it was weird and different but you didn’t realise it’s gotten THAT bad

[stompandhollar]

Honestly the most revolutionary thing about Gravity Falls to me is its commitment to sincerity.

I’ve been listening to Alex’s podcast where he goes into the details of each episode with different storyboard artists and writers who worked on the show, and it just baffles me how… cared for the story is. Right now in media there’s been an uptick in satire, and shows making fun of themselves for existing, or taking the piss at their own content to “win” fans to their side. It’s like whimsy is gone from so many pieces of media. But Gravity Falls just doesn’t… do that. It completely embraces itself. Weirdness and all. And so does the team behind it. I’m not used to something I care about being so cared about by everyone surrounding it.

Here’s this cartoon, written and illustrated by an entire team of people saying, “no, we’re serious. we mean this. we made this on purpose and we made it important.”

Throughout the podcast, Alex discusses little ins and outs of each character, offering so much deep internal struggles and enriching the story even farther. And listening to him unpack it with the utmost sincerity just warms my heart. Each character is so dynamic because they were cared for by people who imbued them with sincerity.

That’s exactly why we get quotes like “Shame is powerful, but it grows in the dark,” as Ford realizes the trauma he’s hidden for so long is being embraced by his family, diminishing it’s weight on him through their immediate support.

It’s why we get Alex describing Stanley with quotes like; “I always in my gut thought of him as somebody with a huge well of sadness, a loss of human connection. And that need to please? That need to get laughs from the crowd, and putting on a big show? He’s trying to get from them the affection he never got from his family, and that he lost with his brother.”

Or detailing how Mabel might be a goof… but half the time she’s doing a bit, because she’s really more mature than her brother and doesn’t want him to grow up too fast. She’s trying to help ground him and bring lightheartedness into his life. Because she knows otherwise, he’ll become too self isolated.

And those two mini character studies he dropped so casually in these podcast episodes just… color the show. It’s why the show survived so well even after ten years. It’s gruff-old Stan always calling his niece “Pumpkin” and “Honey”. It’s the family always holding hands without it behind laced with a joke, and falling asleep on one another in the car. It’s Alex explaining that people toyed with other endings, other plot lines, other twists, but it was always going to end with Stan and Ford mending the family tie they severed thirty years ago. Because that was their story. Messes and family and care.

Ten years ago, watching it for the first time as it came out, I felt all that. But now, as an adult, knowing that all the other adults who made it felt the exact same way? :,) What a special story we all got to grow up with, and get to continue being apart of.

[pipermca]

New AO3 Tag Wrangling Policy and the Transformers Fandom

Edit in the event people come back to the original post: Please do not email AO3 about this issue. See their response about this issue!

(This is a long one, folks, but I think it's important.)

A new tag-wrangling policy on AO3 has the potential to create some massive confusion and chaos in the Transformers fanfic community, with regards to fandom tags. There is a Reddit post about it here with a focus on anime fandoms, but I want to give some concrete examples for the Transformers fandom on why we DO NOT WANT this, and why I think it's a horrible idea.

The Problem

Basically, AO3 is looking to get rid of the "All Media Types" fandom tag across the board, either by dismantling them or just not maintaining them. The Transformers - All Media Types tag has been an all-purpose tag that you could select when your story doesn't fall into any one specific continuity. Additionally, all most (see below) TF continuities on AO3 are considered a subtag of the Transformers - All Media Types tag. For example, if you look at the link above for all works in the All Media Types tag, you will see fics that are also tagged ONLY with Transformers: Animated, because it falls under the All Media Types tag.

One exception: With the upcoming Transformers: One movie coming out imminently, there will likely be a big influx of stories tagged with Transformers: One. In fact, there are several already. However, it hasn't been linked to the larger Transformers - All Media Types tag yet. I wasn't worrying about it though, because I know these things can take time.

With information about this new tagging policy, however, I'm now wondering whether it'll EVER get linked to the All Media Types tag. If that happens, and when more continuities are developed in the coming years (since you know Hasbro loves creating new universes) this has the potential to cause massive confusion when looking for stories to read.

Searching for Stories with the New Tagging System

So let's say the All Media Types fandom tag isn't accurate anymore, because it no longer includes ALL of the continuities (such as TF:One). You will need to include ALL the Transformers continuities when browsing for TF fics.

How many tags is that? Well, here are all of the tags currently listed under the Transformers - All Media Types tag:

Note that this doesn't include Transformers: One since it hasn't been categorized yet.

You will potentially have to have 40 or more different fandom tags in your search, just in case the author tagged their story with something you weren't expecting.

This massively decreases the findability of a story.

Tagging with the New System

The email response from the Tag Wrangling group (see the linked Reddit post above) seems to be a bit flip in the response to the user's concern. "...encourages creators to tag with the media they intend."

While I appreciate what they are attempting to do, this policy change feels like a solution in search of a problem, especially in larger fandoms with multiple continuities, versions, and media types that are all cross-pollinated in both canon and fanon. While I'm focusing on Transformers fandom, imagine a creator in the DC comic universe writing a story that incorporates bits and pieces from a dozen different reboots.

For example, let's say that I am writing a fic about Ratchet. I am using the setting of the original G1 episodes, but I also am using the characterization of him as a bit of an old man grump. That characterization originated in the Animated continuity, but I want to incorporate bits of pieces of his other characterizations as well (old friend of Optimus from TFP, Ratchet ran a faction-free clinic like he did in the War for Cybertron series, he's got a Decepticon boyfriend like in IDW1 - or maybe even Cyberverse, etc.)

With this new tagging structure, I might potentially have to tag the story with ALL of those continuities. So instead of just slapping down the "All Media Types" tag (and maybe one other fandom tag that matches the characters as best I can), I'll have to analyze my story and try to figure out how best to tag for the characters I used.

And what if you're doing a completely AU version of the story? For example, a humanformers story, or merformers? Using the All Media Types tag along with a Alternate Universe - Human or Alternate Universe - Mermaid tag worked perfectly, since you weren't writing the story to fit into one specific continuity. But now, that might not be an option.

What To Do??

The first thing I would suggest is to contact AO3 (using the Feedback and Support page) and let them know (nicely) that you think this is a horrible idea. Give them some examples on how you use the All Media Types tag to find stories to read, or to help you tag a story. People outside of the Transformers fandom don't always appreciate how absolutely tangled the continuities can be with each other, and providing examples might help them see why this would be a really messy change.

Readers: Be aware that when you are looking in the All Media Types tag, it will no longer show newer continuities. And if AO3 starts dismantling that tag like they suggested they are doing, be aware that some stories won't show up in that tag like they used to. You can also create and then bookmark a custom search page that includes all 40+ continuities. REALLY annoying, but it's a workaround.

Writers: Until they start dismantling the All Media Types tag, ALWAYS ALWAYS tag your stories using Transformers - All Media Types... Especially for newer continuities. This will be especially important if you are writing a Transformers: One story. Right now, anyone who is only browsing the All Media Types tag will not see a story tagged only with Transformers: One. Make sure you're aware of how tags work and how they can affect the visibility and findability of your story.

Epilogue

Ugh. That's a lot of words for a long-weekend Saturday. And maybe I'm overreacting a tiny bit. But my work involves information architecture, and this change just absolutely baffles me. It's almost as though they want to make it harder to find stories. Considering that AO3 won a Hugo partially because of its fantastic tagging system, this change seems like AO3 is doing its best to shoot itself in the foot.

When you have a square hole, a round hole, and a rectangular hole… Yeah, you DO want each peg to go in the "right" hole. But if all of the pegs fit in the square hole, who cares? You got the job done.

I love you @ao3org, but please reconsider this change... Especially for IPs that are as old and are as varied as Transformers.

[schadenfreudich]

"I hate this. It looks great but I hate this." - Franz, after realizing that embroidering stars onto an entire frock coat includes embroidering stars onto an entire frock coat.