icicaille



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  1. Public Bookmark 15

    Tags
    Summary

    England is a dream, emerging from the thinning mist; unreal.

    England is on this limping frigate; one of the last to leave. Men in blankets, wrapped in tarps, the sweat of waking nightmares oily in their hair.

    James keeps England in the pocket of his greatcoat, tucked against his heart.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    13,626
    Chapters:
    1/1
    Comments:
    36
    Kudos:
    68
    Bookmarks:
    15
    Hits:
    358

    01 Aug 2020

  2. Public Bookmark 14

    Tags
    Summary

    James felt the least chilled he had in months.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    910
    Chapters:
    1/1
    Comments:
    28
    Kudos:
    97
    Bookmarks:
    14
    Hits:
    563

    31 Jul 2020

  3. Public Bookmark 8

    Tags
    Summary

    Francis is, he knows, a selfish man at heart. That he should derive so much pleasure, so much pride, from reducing someone to their base desires with only his hands and his mouth: that is as much sin, surely, as the act itself. But in this moment, with Fitzjames writhing against him, making the sorts of noises a man makes when he is biting on his own first, Francis cannot bring himself to care.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    6,712
    Chapters:
    1/1
    Comments:
    24
    Kudos:
    73
    Bookmarks:
    8
    Hits:
    552

    27 Jul 2020

  4. Public Bookmark 13

    Tags
    Summary

    They’ve taken a country cottage for a fortnight — in Surrey, no less, closer to Box Hill than Emma Woodhouse could have wished — and there are strawberries.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    2,105
    Chapters:
    1/1
    Comments:
    28
    Kudos:
    76
    Bookmarks:
    13
    Hits:
    389

    27 Jul 2020

  5. Public Bookmark 3

    Summary

    Names of endurance, names of devotion,
    street names and place names and all the names
    of our dark heaven crackling in their pan.
    It’s a bed of straw, darling. It sure as shit is.
    If there was one thing I could save from the fire,
    he said, the broken arms of the sycamore,
    the eucalyptus still trying to climb out of the yard —
    your breath on my neck like a music that holds
    my hands down, kisses as they burn their way
    along my spine — or rain, our bodies wet,
    clothes clinging arm to elbow, clothes clinging
    nipple to groin — I’ll be right here. I’m waiting.

    Words:
    6,762
    Works:
    2
    Bookmarks:
    3

    27 Jul 2020

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