Do you think Neil ever regrets choosing Neil Josten. Since that being his new permanent name was technically a coincidence. Do you ever think he wishes it was ever one of the other 22 names… like maybe he reaaaaallly liked one of them. Like idk maybe he was attatched to Stefan.
Just. Neil pressing Andrew gently into the mattress and whispering into his skin, “you are the best thing that’s ever been mine.” Kissing his stomach and looking into his eyes, watching the burned gold hazy with lust, as Andrew swallows hard against his too-dry throat.
hiiiiiiiiii *stands in from of u covered in blood holding a bloody baseball bat*
something so so magical in the way that andrew and neil fell in love with who the other was at 19/20, and something so so magical about how they fall in love with every other version of each other as they heal and re-find footing again and again
They already loved each other at their worst. They'll fall in love with each other at their best and at every stage of healing in between.
I want to clarify something about my Lawyer!Andrew post:
Andrew is not doing this to impress people. In fact he actively doesn't want to impress people. He is done being a superman who holds everyone's lives in his hands. It's not good for his mental health when he's doing it and it's not good for anyone when that he fails, because the law is too big and some of these fuckers are just legitimately dumber and more guilty than his literal murderous mafia husband.
Anyways. Andrew wakes up in the morning, goes to his closet and shoves aside the 15k dollar Armani suits so he can put on the two piece he got at Macy's (then tailored to fit, cause he still has standards), and a matching tie.
He goes to the office. Brad asks him if he heard about the latest draft picks. Andrew stares him down until Brad goes to Andrew's desk and drops a quarter in the "Asking Andrew about Exy" jar. Andrew's coworkers seem to think that he's gonna buy the office a Foosball table with the jar money. They are wrong. It is for a new cat tower. Also, no Andrew hasn't seen it, but he got the rundown from Neil and Kevin, so he knows enough to tell Brad not to bother with a season pass for the Sealions this year.
He has two cases to deal with today. The first is a vehicular manslaughter charge. The client is pleading self defense, and that the victim was a stalker. Andrew likes her because, despite bursting into tears every time they have a trial prep session, she actually listens to instructions and knows when to shut the fuck up. He's confident.
The second is grand larceny. The guy is so super incredibly guilty but Brad gave him this case because he knows Andrew loves police misconduct cases and this one is just so full of protocol breaches that Andrew only had to show Neil the file for him to burst out laughing.
Janet says he has a call waiting. Janet is the highest paid paralegal in the county, because she also filters his celebrity mail. Technically Neil's pr firm still represents him, but Janet knows to turn down the DA's gala invitations without needing to argue with him.
He picks up the phone. It's the DA. The man invites him to the police gala because he knows Andrew ignored the emails. Andrew assumes the man was banking on Andrew giving a polite refusal he can wheedle or harangue into compliance. The man is new to the job, so Andrew will forgive this embarrassing miscalculation.
They spend the next hour discussing court dates for a certain case. Andrew's client for that one is disabled and only has partial aid, and he won't let them set court dates that they know she won't be able to attend. The DA, despite his embarrassing naivate, seems to be on the same page in this regard, so hopefully this will go well when they bring the matter to the judge.
In the span of this phone call, two of Brad's clients come into the office, and within five minutes of walking in are made to contribute to the jar. They don't get their questions answered, because he's on the phone, and they're not Brad.
He has court tomorrow. Court is annoying, because it's a room full of strangers who hear his name and forget why he's there, and he's not allowed to bring the jar. Court is a chore, because he has to walk people through their own idiocy, and then occasionally convince the room of just how stupid or brilliant it actually was.
Court is also, maybe, just a teensy bit fun, because whatever the stereotype of a lawyer is, Andrew really isn't it, and that makes people take him a lot less seriously until he starts quoting their words back to them faster than the stenographer.
(Janet also filters job offers. They tend to crop up every few months.)
(It used to be more fun, back in the early days when Neil would sit in sometimes, until he remembered just how horrifically boring the whole thing is. But that's fine. Andrew is happy having his own thing.)
But really, court is easy. It's a place where your word has weight, where promises are binding, and when everything is going to shit, nobody looks at Andrew like he's the freak for keeping his head.
what are you even supposed to do when youre angry. cant scream at anyone cos im not a dick. cant break anything cos i paid money for that. cant rip my hair out cos i need it on my head. literally what now
the council has conferred and it has been decided that the most painful ages to happen to a person are 12, 17, 19, and 23
op i am holding your grandpa to this
I know everyone says it’s best to just stick to “said” as a dialogue tag bc it disappears and that’s true and I mostly do but I want to take a moment for my all-time favorite dialogue tag, “lied.” Absolutely nothing hits like “‘I’m here to help,’ he lied.” NOTHING.
ABSOLUTELY one of my favourites.
Still feels weird that the same band made "You're Gonna Go Far, Kid" and "Pretty Fly (For A White Guy)"
It's like if Smash Mouth and Fall Out Boy were one band.
The Offspring are honestly a contender for the funniest punk band ever, made even funnier by the fact that Dexter Holland is pushing 60 now and has a PhD in virology.
Like imagine being on an academic committee and reviewing a dissertation on HIV protein-encoding genomes and it's from a guy with frosted tips whose greatest legacy is the Crazy Taxi soundtrack.
That's the Offspring.
I know exactly how this bear feels
Since birth you could see a counter above people’s heads. It doesn’t count down to their death. It goes up and down randomly. You’re desperate to find out what it means.
You learn that other people can’t see the counter when you’re around five, and ask your mother what it means because hers just dropped suddenly to three and you don’t know why.
She looks confused, the number slowly ticking up and down, and asks what game you’re playing. She seems distracted, and now you’re confused too, because you’ve been telling people their numbers for years.
You can’t see your own, not even in a mirror, and the fact that everyone gave you different answers wasn’t all that odd since you couldn’t see a pattern in how their numbers changed.
It does explain why you sometimes got answers in the millions though, when you never saw anyone else with a number higher than a few hundred. And here you’d thought you were special.
You’re more circumspect when asking if other people see them after that year, because while your mom was nice, the kids on the playground weren’t. You had to pretend it was a game, and they were stupid for not playing along.
You reach your teen years, get really into all those romantic ideas about a countdown to death, and it makes you scared of watching the counters drop for a few years.
But you comfort yourself that it’s clearly not a countdown, every time a friend hits one, or zero. It goes up and down, by jumps and starts, and seems so random.
Of course you become obsessed with math. You watch your one friend, a girl with yellow hair whose number jumps more and faster than anyone you’ve ever met. You track the numbers, log them for days and weeks, and try to find an equation to explain them.
There’s nothing, of course. Even when you think you see a pattern, it breaks in a matter of hours.
You look for the slowest changer instead, factor in the time between switches, and it’s still no good. You’re an irredeemable nerd now, but you need to know.
You get yourself a scholarship, pursue calculus and theoretical math, and your fellow students are almost as passionate as you. But none of them can see the numbers, none of them have the mystery you’ve never solved.
The scholarship doesn’t fully cover the cost of textbooks, so you take a job as a barista nearby. That’s interesting, because you see so many people all at once and can do more little studies of the numbers.
The answer definitely isn’t “time since last meal”, or “last cup of coffee”.
The presence of such a large and diverse sample lets you spot new things you hadn’t considered before too; you always knew most peoples’ counters changed at different speeds, but you’ve never seen anyone consistent before.
There’s a kid with green hair and piercings all up both ears and brows, and their number is never lower than twenty. They’re never rude, but they’re loud in spite of themselves, and you find yourself liking to see them.
A control for your experiments, a regular and reliable face.
There’s an old man who sits in the back whose number never changes and who never speaks. He hands you a napkin with a coffee order every time, and some of your coworkers are scared touching the napkins will make you sick.
You aren’t. The old man might be homeless or might not be; none of you actually know. He sits bundled in coats all through the summer, always has the same red scarf, always has the same seven sat above his head.
You’ve never seen him sat or napping in the street, but he’s never pulled out a key and you haven’t followed him to see if he goes to a home.
Whether he’s unhoused or not, you’re not about to treat him like a plague rat. He’s just quiet, and for all you know he’s fully mute.
You talk slowly and clearly back, making sure your mouth is easy to follow because you can’t be sure he can hear you in the first place. He watches your lips instead of your eyes, never replies, but always pays in exact change, and then puts the exact same tip in the jar.
One day, on a whim, you join a sign language club at university. It takes some practice to get the signs down, and you have to ask for some specific phrases, but a week later you try wishing him a good day in ASL.
His eyes light up, a tremulous smile half hidden in the scarf. He doesn’t sign back, but you know the secret now. He just doesn’t have much to say, but he was happy you made the effort.
His number is eight now.
You wondered if it might have been changing all along and you just didn’t notice, but it doesn’t go back down. Or up any further.
You have the strongest feeling you are that number eight, but you can’t prove it. It didn’t change while you were watching, or while he was in the store.
You take statistics class, get permission from your manager to run out a few projects at work. Things like two tip jars, each with a different sign and a note behind them explaining the project.
That gets much more results than a single tip jar, as you expected, people are firm in their opinions and pick sides quickly.
The other baristas insist on keeping the two jar method even once you’ve gotten an A on your findings. They’re for competing sports teams on game days, music genres over the summer when the concerts come through, silly things like “cake or pie” when nothing more serious is going on.
There’s no correlation between the counters and how much people donate, or which side they choose.
You don’t realize that other people don’t have your memory for numbers and faces until you comment that your dear regular always donates to the jar on the left. Your coworker looks surprised and asks how you know.
Apparently other people don’t really keep numbers in their heads, but it’s second nature to you by now. You don’t always have time to grab the notepad you used to track them in.
University is interesting, and you find your way to chaos theory, which is fun in so many ways. One thing you do notice is that the numbers of your professors are almost always in motion, ticking up and down by tens at a time.
It doesn’t match the attendance sheets, you checked, with some excuses from your statistics class. You’re taking a seemingly random array of math specialties, but they all help each other.
The puzzle continues, all through your degrees (two full masters, and neither of them help). You learn to think of the world, of numbers, in a different way. You leave the cafe, move on to a couple of think tank positions.
You’ve never found anyone else who can see the numbers either. That’s okay though; you don’t want to just be given the answer anymore. This is a challenge now, a test of your worth, a constant companion.
Crunching numbers, applying analytics for work is good practice and keeps you sharp, but it isn’t your passion. Your passion is the mystery, but now you have access to the kinds of computers you can start running a broader analysis on.
You have decades of data now, and you feed it all in after work. Set the machines analyzing, using as much information about each person as you have, looking for variables.
It runs for months, but you’re not exactly surprised by the results; you need more data. No correlation detected.
It’s still a disappointment, and for a few days you feel down. You stop thinking about the counters. Just focus on your work, doing your job, making a play at socializing and reminding yourself you have a life outside your quest.
Kind of.
And then one day you’re in a coffee shop, grabbing a hit on your way to morning classes, and the cashier is a real sweet looking kid with earnest brown eyes and neatly tied back cornrows.
He looks conflicted as you make your order, you’ve been coming here since he started but you’ve never really talked. He takes your order, takes your money, and you move back.
You’re expecting someone else to bring you the drink, but he switches out and leans over the counter to give you the cup and cookie you definitely didn’t order. You’re confused; you didn’t pay for it, there’s no promotion.
He gives you a small empathetic smile.
“You look like you need it. Your…. Uh…. Your colour’s washed out,” he says in a hurry, clearly expecting you to think nothing of it, but your heart stops.
He doesn’t mean your face. You know that. If anything, your natural tan has gotten darker now that you spend more time outside. Just. Sitting in the park. Pretending you’re not thinking about the numbers.
But the way he says it, the furtive glances, the way you suddenly realize he’s been looking just a little above your face almost every time you see him.
You don’t grab his hand, even though you desperately want to. He’s already turning, rushing back to work, and you need to know.
“Wait,” you call as quietly as you can, and he stops. Glances back.
There’s something in those brown eyes now, a wariness and a kind of squashed down hope you know you’re showing too.
Wetting your lips you try and work out how to ask. What to say. It isn’t numbers, clearly. But you’ve never known your own number, always desperately wondered, and if there’s even a tiny chance…
“What… what colour was I?” You ask quietly, and he takes a quick glance around.
It’s not busy. You came after the rush, not wanting to be overwhelmed by counters you just can’t figure out.
He gives you a thoughtful look, from that spot on your forehead down to your eyes, still guarded but hoping.
“Blue,” he says softly, coming back to lean on the counter, “but it was very bright. Cyan, almost glowing. You’re… more grey now. Powder blue.”
You take a moment trying to think about the difference, then pull your phone up to look. He stifles a chuckle, then pulls himself up. Looks at you cautiously, hopefully.
“You don’t see them, do you?” He asks softly, watching you examine the two colours. It snaps you back and you look up, a small smile on your face.
“Not colours. I see counters. Not like, death counters,” you add quickly when he looks suddenly alarmed, wondering how to make it seem reassuring. “They go up and down and I’ve spent my whole life trying to work out what they’re for, but it’s definitely not that.”
You pause for a moment, looking at him with a slight frown on your face. His isn’t especially high or low, and he did tell you what he saw.
“Yours is forty-six,” you tell him softly, and stifle a laugh when it promptly changes. “Fifty-two.”
It seems to settle him a little, his eyes tracking your face, noting where you’re looking. You meet his eyes again.
“Do you know what the colours mean?” You ask softly, and he gives an awkward shrug.
“Not really. Just… never seems to be a good thing when they’re fading. Most people stay in one colour but change hue and saturation.”
They’re not terms you’re super familiar with, you’re not an artist, but you know in your heart that this is it. Your big break. A second data point.
All you have to do is not scare him away.
“I finally finished running a full computer analysis on all the counters I’ve seen,” you admit softly, gaze slipping down to the free cookie. “It didn’t find anything.”
He makes a soft, sympathetic noise, and the first smile you’ve actually felt since tugs at your lips. You give him a hopeful look.
“If you wouldn’t mind… you could email me the colours you see, and I could add them to the dataset? No names or anything, just…” and suddenly you realize that this project is creepy as hell, and super invasive, and he looks surprised and you should definitely leave.
This time he calls you back, glancing around the mostly empty store. And he quietly tells you the colours he sees above each head, and you note that along with their counters.
You’re already thinking of possible connections, maybe something in the precise wavelength of light, it’s wonderful that he’s so specific and knows so many colour names.
He’s an art student. Of course he is. And he agrees to help, if you come in at the end of the day he can finish out his shift and tell you all the colours he sees of the people still there.
Finally, finally, you have some help. Someone who understands, even if they don’t see what you do. And sure, you’ve got about fifteen years of life over him, but you always wanted a little brother.
He gawks at your work laptop when you bring it in; it’s big enough that it looks a century out of date, but that’s because you built it yourself to run like a supercomputer. Its fans roar like engines when you boot it up, and you have a whole gaggle of fascinated baristas by the time closing comes.
It can’t handle the full scope of the data set, but it connects on a private VPN to the big computer at work and can handle chunks at a time.
And convert video to 3D, but that was just to see if you could.
Your friend’s name is Dillan, and you give him yours because it’s not his fault you don’t wear a name tag. He’s got a good head for data analysis, and you know if his art doesn’t pan out he’ll do well anyway.
His art is wonderful though; reminiscent of time-lapses of cityscapes lit in blurred headlights and neon, but you know each soft line of colour is a person. He does smaller spaces too, a room, a corner of the park.
Portraits sometimes, peoples faces painted in the shades of their colour as it changes. It’s almost perfectly photorealistic, and you know he’s a prodigy in the same way you are.
You hope he can make the art he loves forever, even when he’s frustrated that a piece isn’t coming out quite right.
There isn’t an easy answer, even with his help and your new data sets. It takes years, with monthly meetings first in his coffee shop, and then at the library when he moves on.
You help with any homework that involves math, and once with a sympathetic shoulder and gentle advice when a TA is trying to drive his grades down. You know first hand how unforgiving the education system is to kids of colour, but you also remember how older students protected you.
There’s channels to report, if you know for sure they won’t take the TA’s side. There’s evidence gathering, witnesses, making sure you aren’t alone with them.
His family is far away, his parents unable to stand in his corner, so you pose as a distant cousin when he decides to make the complaint. Having an adult there, especially one with your qualifications, cuts the whole process off at the knees.
Seeing the TA’s eyes widen as you walk in in your best suit sends a little thrill through the kid in you who once sat in Dillan’s seat. Their counter jumps three times during the meeting, and this time you’re certain it’s not a good sign for them.
With the evidence Dillan and his friends have collected, the TA loses their position and gets a month of mandatory bias training. It might not change them, but you don’t care.
Dillan bounces like he’s walking on the moon as you leave, his own counter ticking steadily higher in a way you’re just as sure can’t be bad. His counter ticks up and down for the next few days, seemingly at random, and while he doesn’t know his own colour any more than you can see your counter, something in your heart tells you he’s a bright sunshine yellow.
His parents are a little concerned, of course. You meet at Dillan’s graduation, especially since you’ve got him an intern position at your work to keep him on his feet while he looks for work he actually loves.
They’re grateful, a pair of large Black men whose whole stance is a challenge for you to comment. You’re half expecting a shovel talk of some kind, and ready for it, when Dillan leans in eagerly and whispers that you’re the one who sees the numbers.
His father’s eyes soften, though his dad is still wary. You tell them both their own numbers, the only way you can try and prove it.
His father’s younger sister saw the numbers, you learn, and your heart stops all over again.
Someone else. A third person.
But she died long ago, and you’re startled to learn that she saw decimals. You never thought about it, never really wondered, but your counters are always whole numbers.
Dillan’s father doesn’t know all of the details, but he seems to feel better speaking about her. She never knew what the numbers were either, and he doesn’t know if she ever recorded them, but it fills you with relief.
You’d stopped looking for anyone else.
Told yourself you didn’t want to just be given the answer.
Liked being the only one to solve the puzzle.
But now that it’s possible, that you really know there are other people, first one and now two and who knows how many more?
It settles around your shoulders like a blanket, and Dillan is grinning at you in a way that tells you something has happened to your colour. You’ll add it to the dataset later.
No one else in Dillan’s family really see anything, on either side, but that’s okay. You have a goal now, and Dillan finally convinces you to do the one thing you’ve always avoided.
His dad’s a web designer. You spend about a month together, the two of you and occasionally Dillan when he isn’t painting, working out how to pose the invitation. What to show, how to format the site, how to filter out the false replies that always kept you from trying before.
Dillan does a bunch of art for the site too, pictures of what he sees that you can hardly believe aren’t just photos of people with a small circle of colour just around the hairline.
Pictures of what you see, the plain white numbers floating just above their heads. Gifs that show the way they change, the number ticking up and down like those old fashioned flap cards they used to roll through at ballgames before LED screens replaced the analog.
It’s always been funny to you, how archaic your counters are. Outdated before you were born, and the only reason you know the flip cards existed is because your mother showed you when you tried to explain what you saw.
But the white numbers fold themselves in half to show the new number unfolding down just like that, and Dillan laughs about it with you while you make the gif.
You spend long minutes with Dillan and his dad once it’s all ready, just looking at the button that’ll send the whole thing live.
Are you ready?
There’s a new email address just for this, but you know it’ll keep all three of you busy if enough people find the site. There’ll be people making fun of you, just like when you were little, and people pretending to feel special.
But there might be someone else too, someone as lost and confused as you were. What else might others see? Shapes? Scribbly lines that get more and more jagged like your counter climbs?
You can’t even imagine it, and it steals the breath from your lungs.
Dillan steals the mouse and hits the button for you, then runs away with it so you can’t panic and undo it. His dad laughs until tears run down his cheeks as you do indeed panic, leaping up to chase your little brother.
But it’s done now, and you can breathe again.
You still don’t know the answer. You know that at the end of it all, Dillan’s colours may have nothing at all to do with your counters.
But you’re not alone.
You saw your shadow in this sweet, funny kid, reached out the way you wish someone had reached for you, and now you’ve both reached out to the whole world.
It’ll be a pain in the ass sorting it all out, but you have work friends who can make you a program to filter the openly aggressive messages.
Because somewhere in the world, there’s a five year old kid who was just told no one else sees the world the way they do, and they’ll be able to see that it’s not true. They’re not alone. Someone will help them solve the mystery.
You’re no closer to the answer than you were as a fresh graduate yourself, can’t imagine what it could be.
But it turns out you were wrong, back when you were the fresh graduate who wanted to solve the world all alone. Answers aren’t as important as not being alone.
me not knowing what the counters mean but getting a cute story with a nice moral
lesbiansitara-moved-deactivated
I wish that ao3 had an option to filter warnings (and tbh certain authors) out like I will never ever want to read it and just seeing it puts me off so much that often I end up closing my browser because that content upsets me so much lmao
watsonshoneybee
There is a way to do this but I can’t recall how to do it. it’s something you type into the box for “other filters” or something, I don’t remember. who knows?? It’s not a great option, and I don’t know if you can sort out authors that way, but it’s better than nothing if someone can reblog this with how to do it!
sherrinfordeductions
Alrighty friends! It takes some specificity, but you can do this. Let me show you how!
So I started with going to the Sherlock (TV) section of Ao3. On the right we find this lovely section! ((I know I’m going over things you already probably know, but I figure this post may go to new Ao3 users, so bear with me.))
Underneath this, I chose sort by Kudos, because that’s a quick way to find most popular fics, for the sake of this demonstration.
With those filters on, we end up with this being our first two results:
As you can see, we have Nature and Nurture by earlgreytea68, and The Internet Is Not Just For Porn by cyerus. So what if I am utterly sick of seeing earlgreytea68 on my list? Let’s pretend I’ve read all their fics, or that I just don’t like her, or whatever. I want this author out. I go to this section on the right:
In “Search within results” I type earlgreytea68 into the bar, with a minus sign in front. This gives me the following page, upon hitting the sort and filter button:
There goes earlgreytea68! But now I’ve decided that Crack is just not my thing, I’m sick of that, too, for heaven’s sake, I want something reasonable in my gay slash fanfiction about detectives that solve crimes about glowing dogs and irish megalomaniacs. Heaven forbid this get ridiculous.
Well, then I add this to my search:
Which gets rid of everything with that tag. My results are now:
Performance in a Leading Role is now my first result!
You can do this as many times as you want; the biggest problem I have is trying to filter out multi-worded tags. For example, “Secret Relationship” is hard to filter. Better to go with authors you dislike or with words like “DubCon”.
I hope this helps! Also remember that googling site:archiveofourown.org and then adding search terms will mean google searches Ao3 for you, and sometimes that works far better.
Good luck!
watsonshoneybee
An excellent in-depth guide! Thank you!!
bilqisofsheba
omg changed my whole ao3 rarepair game
An excellent guide to filtering on AO3!
You can filter out phrases by enclosing them in quotes. For example, if ABO and Hydra Trash Party are not your things, try:
-“alpha/beta/omega dynamics” -”hydra trash party”
I have more advice!
Say, you’re in your random fandom- I went with the Marvel Cinematic Universe, since I’ve been reading Iron Man stuff recently. Tony Stark is awesome.
But anyway, you’re on the page, and you see that there are 174,774 works! That is way too many for a casual afternoon’s browsing.
And you see that the first one is Peter Parker/Tony Stark and that is not your jam. It doesn’t work for you, or it squicks you, whatever. Wouldn’t life be easier if you could browse without seeing that pairing (or whatever pairing you don’t like)? You can!
First, click on that pairing tag(You may want to open this in another tab, actually.):
and it’ll take you to the page for that pairing tag. Click this button:
and then look at the address bar! The actual page is unimportant. Copy the numbers located here:
and go back to the original search page! Down on the side, in the same place you can get rid of other tags, type -relationship_ids:”the number you just copied”
Then hit ‘sort and filter’ annnd… magic!
The fics with that pairing are gone! You can also do multiple pairings, get rid of any tags you don’t like, and sort it by date or length or kudos, or whatever.
Enjoy.
I’d just like to add that these sorts of search modifiers ALSO WORK IN GOOGLE AND MOST RESEARCH DATABASES. The more you know.
Just a quick reminder that AO3 uses Lucene as a search and index engine.
That means you can pretty much use all the Lucene Query Syntax in the “Seach within result” field.
I don’t think AO3 indexes the whole fic for searching but definitely it’s meta data. Combined with Lucenes awesome query syntax you can do pretty much every search you heart desires.
Addtional Lucene Query Syntax that has not been mentioned yet and you might find useful:
Wildcard Searches
You can use wildcard searches within single terms. For a single character wildcard search use the “?” symbol. For a multiple character wildcard search use the “*” symbol.
AND/OR
Lucene allows you to combin terms through logic operators. You’re looking for fics that are either “reunion” or “enemies to lovers”?
Just put in >“reunion” OR “enemies to lovers”< into the field
and you end up with all the stories that are either or but not both.
But wait, now you’re looking for fics that are both “reunion” and “enemies to lovers” at the same time? Now worries Lucene got you covered.
Just change it into >“"reunion” AND “enemies to lovers”“<
and you’ll get all the fics that mention both “reunion” and “enemies to lovers” somewhere in their meta data (note: it’s not just tags. It’s also title, summary …)
Boosting
You can also boost specific terms when doing a multi term search.
You can use the “^” Operator followed by a number to boost a specific term.
Say you’re interested in fics that are either “first kiss” or “bed sharing” but you’re much more interested in “bed sharing” fics and feel they are more relevant.
You can use the search >“first kiss” “bed sharing”^5<
to manipulate the order of your results in a matter that the score of every fic that contains beg sharing is multiplied by 5. Therefore all fics containing that term are given priority and shown at the top of the list.
You can also combine all of the above, target specifc fields (that’s what you did with the “relationsship_id:xxx”) and many more things.
For more info about the Lucene query syntax check out Apache’s Lucene Query doc.
^ sharing this because we all love fanfics and @itsmajel is a freaking nerd 👌
This is actually a really good example of why internet of things is a security risk. The hackers couldn't have exploited the thermometer as an entry point if it didnt connect to the fucking internet to start with
[lmao @sweetenby]
You're telling me an Ocean Eleven'd this casino?
they need to invent the ability to do something even if you don't like it
blorbo doesn't cut it that thing is my squeaky toy and i'm a dog with a strong kill instinct. shaking it shaking it shaking it shaking it