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bambivirus
23 February 2013 @ 08:23 am
Sterek
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DannyxStiles
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JacksonxStiles
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GEN
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bambivirus
23 February 2013 @ 08:17 am
SamxDean

If You Answered Mostly C (G - PreSlash)
“Who’s your perfect lover?” he reads. He lets out a soft breath. “Dude,” he says, “too easy. Hot. And loves giving head. And hot.”
 
 
bambivirus
23 February 2013 @ 08:07 am
ArthurxEames

And I Feel Fine (PG - some swearing)
"So as it turns out, Arthur is in love. This is not a particularly welcome revelation, besides which he isn't quite sure what to do with it."

Sleepless & Dangerous
(R - smut)
"There are people – Eames won’t name names – who might think Eames runs roughshod over Arthur, that Eames is the one who pushes and has his way, that Arthur is the one who folds like a house of cards under Eames’ every request. Those people are idiots."


to be continued...
 
 
bambivirus
05 June 2010 @ 12:00 am

                “Maybe once it was just one man walking across Europe, jingling his ankle bells, a lute on his shoulder making a hunchbacked shadow, before Columbus. Maybe a man walked around in a monkey skin a million years ago, stuffing himself with other people’s unhappiness, chewed their pain all day like spearmint gum, for the sweet savor, and trotted faster, revivified by personal disaster. Maybe his son after him refined his father’s deadfalls, mantraps, bone-crunchers, head-achers, flesh-twisters, soul-skinners. These laid the scum on lonely ponds from which came vinegar gnats to snuff up noses, mosquitoes to ride summer-night flesh and sting forth those bumps that carnival phrenologists dearly love to fondle and prophesy upon. So from one man here, one man there, walking as swift as his oily glances, it became scuttles of dogmen begging gifts of trouble, pandering misery, seeking under carpets for centipede treads, watching for night sweats, hearkening by all bedroom doors to hear men twist basting themselves with remorse and warm-water dreams. 

               "The stuff of nightmare is their plain bread. They butter it with pain. They set their clocks by death-watch beetles, and thrive the centuries. They were the men with the leather-ribbon whips who sweated up the Pyramids seasoning it with other people’s salt and other people’s cracked hearts. They coursed Europe on the White Horses of the Plague. They whispered to Caesar that he was mortal, then sold daggers at half-price in the grand March sale…” 

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