“Luffy.” “Yeah?” “Please tell me I’m hallucinating.” Fear. The smell of it, the sound of it. Luffy’s never felt fear like this come from Sanji before. He hates it. “He’s real. And I think he’s you,” Luffy says. __ A reunion. A camping trip on an uninhabited island. A question. And a gift, or perhaps, an answer. Wherein a Sanji straight from the dungeons of Germa appears in their midst and no one, least of all Sanji, knows what to do about it.

“Well!” Wei Wuxian exclaims with deliberate cheer, clapping his hands together once. “This is terrible! But it could be much worse. You could be stuck here going into heat all alone!” “I would prefer that,” Lan Zhan says, flat. “You say that…” He wags an admonishing finger at Lan Zhan. “But it’s actually your very, very great good fortune to be stuck here in this cave with me specifically, because I am an expert at having your heat in the middle of nowhere, with no one around, and no supplies.”

Left with only three other crew mates, it’s a ready expectation that Sanji will start fawning all over Robin in his usual obnoxious way. However, that’s not what happens. Instead, looking wild around the eyes in a way only someone who knows him well would recognize, the cook doesn’t break stride until he’s firmly within Zoro’s orbit and can wrap both hands around his upper arm, clinging tight. “Hi, darling,” he chirps, his expression desperately conveying that Zoro needs to play along under pain of death. “Did you miss me?”

After the body issue comes out, Tyler only gets one tweet about his junk. It’s a chirp about the proverbial dick-to-ducky ratio in the web-only behind-the-scenes shower pictures. The stupid fake Stanley Cup ass tattoo gets way more attention than anything else, other than the fact that he’s naked in front of a camera. That’s how he wants it: people talking about what he does, not who he is. In which Tyler is trans, and Jamie isn't. A story about coming out, or not; breaking up, or not; and bunching mox. Or not.

“Yeah, well,” Zoro says, “I thought you’d say no.” “Why would I say no?” Law asks, the corners of his lips tugging down in a frown. “Because you’re a control freak,” Zoro snorts, looking away from the sake bottle to meet Law’s eyes instead. “I thought control freaks didn’t drink.”

“And I got here how…?” Yū asks, eyeing Kayama skeptically. “Well, I’m not entirely sure how you got here,” Kayama laughs. Her nail polish is the same deep red as her lipstick, Yū observes idly. “I just know that you came in drunk off your ass and demanding a nipple piercing.” Yū flushes redder than she’s flushed in her entire life. (Or: piercer!Midnight, tattoo artist!Miruko, and Mt. Lady who accidentally stumbles into their shop.)

“Are you familiar with the custom of the sea?” Robin asked. “The one among shipwreck survivors.” Sanji was the cook. It was his job to feed the crew.

Seb tries to help Sam defeat a particularly difficult level of a video game. He is a complete little shit about it. He gets what he deserves.

Penny is frustrated, hopeless, and fed up with being all three things. Shane is there, too.

It starts then. Thinking little of it, feeling only pleased and relaxed, Law smiles and says into the heat of Zoro’s skin, “Join my crew.”

Alpha-17 was made for war. He was made to kill the enemies of the Republic. He was made to die. He was not made to deal with a Jedi lineages interpersonal drama. He was not made to deal with a conspiracy at the heart of the Republic. And he sure as fuck was not made to be witness to Cody's weird as shit relationship with General Kenobi despite not even being assigned to the 212th. And Yet. Here he was. (This was written over the course of a long spell of insomnia. Pecked at during the worst of my 4am insomnia fugue states. So it is what it is and I have no idea what this is. Enjoy.)

Newly reunited and fresh into the New World, the Strawhats split up again briefly to chase rumors of the Mera Mera no Mi. Zoro and Sanji are assigned the long con: whispers place the Devil Fruit in the Lumo Archipelago under the care of Roland Vane, ex Level 6 prisoner of Impel Down. Vane is a recluse and only accessible monthly at pretentious wine tasting parties hosted at his mansion, and only his exclusive group of friends are invited, all queer couples who also enjoy boring cheese plates and even more boring art. The obvious solution is to fake having a husband.

Once upon a December... Roronoa Zoro, left winger for the Mugiwara hockey team, meets figure skater Sanji at the rink and it's hate at first sight. Throw in an unfortunate Secret Santa assignment, and it's the perfect recipe for holiday hijinks on ice.

“Have you considered the possibility that Neil has chosen you, but believes you have not chosen him?” Renee says. "Have you ever explicitly told him what you want?” “Neil knows what I want,” Andrew snaps. This is not Andrew’s fault. “How do you know?” Because Neil always knows. He is as fluent in Andrew’s micro-expressions as he is in German and French. He knows which head tilts mean “go on” and which ones mean “shut up.” Without ever asking, he learned what it meant to see Andrew wearing double layers of long sleeves, or taking multiple showers in a day, and learned to hand Andrew the car keys. That has always been the most terrifying thing about Neil — his patience to wait, watch, listen, learn. The prospect that if Neil were given enough time, there would be no part of Andrew that was just Andrew’s anymore. “He has to know,” Andrew says. “Does he?” Renee says. “Have you ever known Neil to assume that he is wanted?” Five times Neil tells someone that he and Andrew aren’t dating, and one time Andrew uses his words to set the record straight.

“I learn stuff about you to enrich my songs, thanks very much.” Geralt starts. “Like what?” Jaskier strums a chord. “Plenty of things. You always ask the contractor if they want the head or not instead of just showing up with it, because you don’t want to shock people. You eat normal amounts of food when eating in public, instead of your usual awe-inducing giant amount. You sleep more when you’re hurt, but that’s the only way I’d ever know. You’re a bit weird about your potions and you count them a lot.” He glances up and grins. “Shall I continue?” A handful of contracts go sideways. Recovering is easier with Jaskier there.

[“Are you dead?” Are the first words that come out of Zuko’s mouth. Lu Ten winces. He’s barely adjusted to the idea himself, but he still wasn’t expecting Zuko to reach that conclusion so fast. He can’t lie to him. He nods. “I am.” “But you’re real.” “Yeah. Real dead.” He tries for a joke but Zuko bursts into tears instead.] Or, Lu Ten makes a promise, Lu Ten dies. Lu Ten comes back.

Dabi narrows his eyes. "Alright. Let's say you don't die. You still have a limited amount of blood, and a lack of blood flow or oxygen to your brain could probably cause permanent damage that even your immortality can't repair." "I'll stop you before that happens," Hawks says, with way more confidence than he has any right to have. "You have zero self-preservation instincts," Dabi has to point out. Hawks grins at him, shooting him finger guns. "So we doing this, or what?" ~ Dabi is a vampire who's never had human blood straight from the tap before. Hawks is a dumbass college student cursed with immortality. What could go wrong?

Sex and feelings and Neil Josten in the middle. In both sexy and unsexy ways.

Despite his best efforts, Andrew finds himself a family.

A group of amateur thieves kidnap a senator’s son to ransom him for money. The senator’s son doesn’t want to go back. * “Are these padded cuffs?” Neil asked, his voice raspy, his throat dry. He tugged on his wrists and winced when they chafed against his recent wounds from Lola. “They’re Nicky’s,” someone answered him—a woman. “Fox Seven! Use the code names!” “Sorry. I’ve never kidnapped someone and ransomed them for money before.” “I’ve been kidnapped?” Neil asked. “What did you think was happening?”

Neil works three low paying, dead-end jobs and makes just enough money to afford a room to sleep in and to keep himself from starving. He has no prospects, no hope, no future. That all changes when a chance encounter results in a job offer that he can't ignore. The job? Pretending to be professional exy player Andrew Minyard's boyfriend.

“All right,” Ned Stark says. “You weren’t supposed to hear that. No one was supposed to, but I guess it’s my own damned fault for not keeping it to myself. Now, I know that if I told you to forget this you’d try, but I remember – I remember how it was when I was your age, myself. Boys of seven can forget that kind of promise easily, if they don’t know why they’re making it.” He takes in another breath. “Robb,” he says, his voice dropping so low it’s barely audible, “do you love your brother?” Or: in which Robb knows about Jon's true heritage all along.

The maddening thing is: Jaskier is almost sure that Yennefer knows, except that he can’t be too sure that she does, except that all evidence points in that direction, except that outright asking her is completely out of the fucking question, except that whenever she talks to him lately she has that glint in her eyes that promises nothing good, except that - Yeah, except that he could ask, but he has a feeling that going to your best friend’s slash boss’s slash former-idol-of-his-teenage-years-that-he’s-had-more-than-a-crush-on-for-years girlfriend and ask her straight hey, by the way, I have a feeling that you know that I write fanfic about the two of you in my spare time and for that matter I’m actually good enough at it that I have a thousand Ao3 subscriptions, and everyone wonders how my characterization is this good is… not… really a good idea. Or: in which Jaskier, as Geralt's social media manager, has resuscitated the man's career and landed him a girlfriend, so what if he incidentally also writes RPF for the both of them on the side? That is, until they invite him to join them.

“Excuse me,” Tywin Lannister grits through his teeth, “my son is doing what?” Stannis tries to not sigh loudly. It would not do in front of the Hand of the King. “You have the raven, my lord. He says he wishes to resign from the Kingsguard as he has not been here for a full year and does not plan to come back, and that he’s perfectly happy roaming the Stormlands and the Trident along with the last Evenstar.” “The last Evenstar.” “Yes.” “The abomination.” Stannis shrugs. “Technically she is one, but I can assure my lord Hand that she is actually quite competent to discuss with.” He’d know. She had better ideas for actually helping the commoners than most of his advisors. He wishes he could make her one. “Competent. She’s an abomination.” “She’s a useful one,” he shrugs. “Also, your son does not seem to agree.” Or: in which Jaime goes to Tarth to slay a supposed monster terrorizing the Stormlands to do something honorable with his life. It doesn't go like that at all.

“Yes, Lord Stark has come to town to help his mother bring out his eldest sister,” Tyrion said, pouring Jaime a glass of wine. “I understand he also plans to take his seat in the House of the Law. His uncle Edmure has been gathering time for him to give his maiden speech.” “Yes, yes,” Jaime said irritably. “That’s not what matters and you know it. Well?” Tyrion sighed. “He's nineteen, well-favored, and as far as I know, neither demented nor stupid. And not a hint of a betrothal. Sorry.”

The Winchesters have been subjected to a lot of things in the name of hunting, but the result of a spell-gone-wrong on their latest case is still pretty high on Dean's weird scale. While their father is out searching for a way to undo the magic, Dean's stuck in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, trying to deal with his bitchy teenage brother and his own increasingly un-brotherly feelings toward him. Who'd have thought Sammy growing a pair of giant bird wings would be the least of his problems?

Sam and Dean have always been oddities among the dragonriders; the youngest man to Impress a Bronze dragon in a hundred years and a boy who turned his back on the riders to become a dragon healer instead. But when fate steps in and chooses a far different path for Sam, the brothers and all the Weyrs of Pern will have to come to terms with much greater changes in their traditions.

Jason Todd is a hunter, one of the best in the business. Dick Grayson is an incubus, one of the most powerful there is. Somehow, they still manage to be something resembling...friends.

"They're watching me," Jason says, when Daisy Mae has left. "Who, the drag queens?" Tim says. His face is an inch from Jason's chest, and when the strobe lights flash their way he can see a drop of sweat moving down Jason's pecs. His mind feels staticky, bouncing from general outrage to a general desire to put his mouth on Jason's skin. He's too horny to be rational about any of this. ++ Tim goes to a gay club and finds himself embroiled in one of Jason's cases. Glitter is involved. Also crises of morality. Also booty shorts.

Tim and Jason go undercover as a just-married couple celebrating their honeymoon in order to catch a high-profile drug lord. Hand-holding, kissing, secret rendezvous and bed sharing ahead. OR: The JayTimWeek prompt I never posted, filled with all of my favorite tropes, inspired by Lana Del Rey’s song - Honeymoon

Tim gets tired of constantly having to remove all the bugs Batman and Oracle plant in his apartment, so he cooks up a scheme to make them regret ever listening in. But he'll need some help, of course.

Tim’s trying to run away from his feelings. Unfortunately, he gets abducted to Russia and is rescued by the very people he’s been avoiding.

What started out as Jay jokingly sexting Tim in a bid to make him laugh (and, in his words, 'get that enormous stick out of his little ass') slowly turns into Tim not only no longer being angry with Jay, but, as they continue to jokingly sext each other whenever the instance arises, slowly starting to consider that a friendship may be blooming between them. After a while, it's possible that friendship could start to bloom into something even more, and maybe all that joke-sexting doesn't stay such a joke anymore after all.

Bernard pops the top off his water bottle, a roll of his wrist at the perfect angle and it comes right off, and pops the faucet in Tim’s very nice kitchen to cold. Tim presses a kiss to the back of Bernard’s neck before Tim moves to the fridge to get his own water. Bernard used to not drink as much water, but Tim drinks enough water for three people a day so Bernard naturally has followed- and now Bernard has no acne so he’s sort of mad about it actually. “The main character has two hands.” Bernard chimes easy and teasing. “Polygamy is the awnser here babe.” Tim peaks over the door of the fridge. “Oh? Is this you telling me something?” — Tim Drake, Bernard Dowd, and Kon-El have two hands each. They use them to hold onto each other.

It’s not like the world is spilling over with clones, is the thing; especially not genetically stable super-powered hybrid clones with– Wait, Tucker thinks, and lifts his head to stare blankly at the poster on his bedroom wall. Well, there’s a lot of posters on all of his bedroom walls, admittedly, but a specific poster on a specific wall. “You’re a genetically stable super-powered hybrid clone,” Tucker says to his poster, still staring at the digitally-rendered face of a teen idol superhero. Superboy continues to grin cockily at him, because he’s a special edition poster and obviously isn’t gonna stop doing that. Tucker, very slowly, reaches for his phone and types something into Bing after all.