This all RPS, and, moreover, RPS that came to me rather than I to it.
out of nowhere,
iphignia939 Top Chef, Harold/Stephen, PG, I guess? (I hate ratings like you wouldn't believe, but I find them somewhat less onerous in fanfic than the movies--the choice comes down to you and you alone if you click on the link or not, and ratings seem to indicate more of a kind of slash than its "audience"--anyway.)It strikes Harold, much later, as being extremely funny that he gets through the entire taping process -- with Stephen around him 24/7, sharing a room in the apartment, accidentally hip-checking him by the burners, joking about opening a restaurant together -- and it's only on the morning of the reunion show that he wakes up gay.
Not, like, ha-ha funny, but dude, he's a chef. He knows food, not funny.
Holy flip, it's Top Chef RPS! Um, I totally found this by accident, but it's awesome, and I wish I could find more Top Chef RPS, although there's a part of me that also says...there's no way, if you did find it, that it would be as fun as this one.
Of Booty, Bondage, and Avril Lavigne,
thamirisSmallville RPS, TW/MR, NC-17
For once the Lion's Gate bridge isn't traffic hell, and Mike zips across fast as Lex Luthor. Helps that he's driving one of Lex's cars, the cool silver Ferrari that the dealer calls a chick-magnet and Mike secretly calls a super-fast Tom-reacher. It's perspective, man.
The Complete Idiot's Guide to Crushing on a Douche,
ladyjaidaCW RPS, JP/CMM, but primarily JP/JA, NC-17
At first he thought it was a joke and that Chad didn’t really think all the things he said, ‘cause who actually thinks all the things they say, right? Only then Chad stopped talking to him for a while over the whole Nutclopse thing and that was when Jared realized that Chad was a closet douche, around the same time he realized Chad was a closet homosexual.
And for something a little different...
Five Ways Jane Austen Never Died, Samantha Henderson
...Jane swathed the statue with her pelisse, for she would have her brother’s gift near her, although she was afraid of it, a little, almost a pleasurable thrill of fear, like the moment after a nearby lightning strike. And so that first night, and the second, and the third, when she had sunk into the little death of sleep, the long, smoky whips of darkness coiled from underneath the carving’s shroud, spiraled across the room to where Jane lay, insinuated themselves gently up her nostrils and down her throat, and began their work.