Eighteen-year-old Tony Stark is the boy genius who woke Captain America, and now he's stuck with him. That's not a bad thing, but between Steve's wide-eyed wonder at the new world and Tony's little fanboy crush, the awkwardness just keeps happening.

Fumizuki Academy is holding an exhibition at Ouran Academy to show off the Summoner Test system. The Ouran students get a crash-course in academic dueling, and Fumizuki gets a crash-course on the most popular boys in school. Things get complicated when Kyouya decides to make a bet of it. Why do the Hitachiin twins keep calling Hideyoshi "Baby"? Why is Pome, Mori's raccoon, in a sweater? Why does Kasanoda need a bit of a lie-down? Does Kyouya ever make a bet he isn't sure he'll win?

Deadpool vs. Kylo Ren. The conclusion is foregone.

For a prompt from the lovely Holly: The Free! anime featuring Tobirama as a swimmer, with a water addiction like Haruka - and the same penchant for undressing at the first sight of water. Cue Madara blushing and flailing, while Tobirama gives zero shits.

fic where there is a supernatural threat to New York City and the Avengers show up to handle it but when they get there the Ghostbusters are already dusting off their hands and hosing off the slime

Sophie left SHIELD a long time ago, and now they want her back. (Eliot is livid.)

concept: willy wonka and harry potter take place in the same universe the ministry of magic haaaates Willy Wonka

Obito glances over Sakura, sprawled out on the couch painting her nails, and raises a brow. “I thought Kakashi told you to leave?” “Ha.” Sakura checks her nails, then starts applying another coat. “He has like three hundred sports channels. I'm not moving an inch.”

This was not his bedroom; this was definitely not his apartment. It was a single room, with a small table across from the bed and a fireplace on the back wall. When he looked out the window, he could see evergreen trees and the chatty bird who wanted everyone to know what his plans for the day were. The walls and floor were plain wood, and a small painting of a tree hung on the wall. At the end of the bed—which was not Brian’s normal bed—Pat looked about two minutes away from an anxiety attack. Mentally, Brian gave Pat a pass for what he would usually consider an overreaction. “Are we,” Brian started, then tried again: “Is this—?” Pat nodded, holding out a small yellow pouch with a parsnip drawn on the front and an open letter addressed to Brian.