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ANNA, 20, USA
Here you will find a lot of Downton Abbey (particularly Lady Mary), long-dead royals, living royals, NBC comedies, Harry Potter, Gilmore Girls, cats, and politics."...the child must have a valuable thing which is called imagination. The child must have a secret world in which live things that never were. It is necessary that she believe. She must start out believing in things not of this world. Then when the world becomes too ugly for living in, the child can reach back and live in her imagination. " -Mary Rommely, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
I am haunted by all the editions of books that are prettier than the ones I already own.
53 383 notes (via gingerrogerss & booksfrommyshelf)
"Don’t wear a hoodie if you don’t want to be mistaken for a criminal and shot."
"Don’t get drunk at a party if you don’t want to be sexually assaulted."
"Don’t argue with a cop if you don’t want to get killed."
"Don’t walk home by yourself if you don’t want to get raped."
Victim blaming 101: Everyone should live in fear from ever doing anything.
104 664 notes (via mayapapayanesha & mysharona1987)
Mary and Charles. Tearful kiss.
Somebody please tell me to stop writing such emotional content first thing in the morning. MM Good-bye kiss yesterday, MC tearful kiss today. Sigh! Another pot of coffee, please…
“God, I hate this.”
She touches his face, her fingers bearing a delicacy he knows belies a spine of iron. But just there, a trembling, a crack in her façade he knows she binds together with all the stamina she can muster. He loves her with a depth still hard for him to fathom, admires this strength of will that makes her who she is.
It’s not right for her to have to brave this stretch of time without him. It’s not fair to her when she has already been forced to weather so much.
“I know you do,” Mary returns, letting her touch linger on his cheek, bolstering a steadiness she does not feel. “So do I, but there’s nothing we can do about this, Charles. You have to go to Ireland, and I’ve been strongly advised not to make the trip with you.”
Strongly advised meaning basically forbidden. It has been harder on her this time, both she and Dr. Clarkson have told him, a combination of age, activity and mothering a four year old that has forced her to rest more often than she would like.
Something akin to rage burns his chest, the frustration that his uncle dared to die at this critical time stirring an unjustifiable anger at entities unknown.
“The timing couldn’t be worse,” he states, his hand reaching out to the swell just between them, her eyes filling with a tenderness she reserves for him and George.
“You’ll be back before it’s time,” she insists, watching the muscles of his face battle in consternation, giving away a fear that needs no voice. “We still have two months.”
They both know George arrived early. They both know Matthew hadn’t been there and that she gave birth alone. They both know that day has been forever marred for her, no matter how much time passes.
They both know too much.
“I will leave as soon as I can, Mary,” he insists, enclosing her hands within his own, breathing her into his body as she steps in closer. “I refuse to miss the birth of my own child.”
“You act as if you’ll be in the room with me when I deliver,” she quips, the lilt in her gaze stirring something warm in his ribs.
“You act as if I won’t be,” he tosses back, touching his nose down to hers. “When I’ve told you I have every intention of holding your hand throughout your labor.”
“Do you really think Dr. Clarkson will allow such a breach of protocol?”
“Do you really think he can prevent me if I have made up my mind?”
A stare of acknowledgement seals much between them, and he draws her closer, relishing the feel of new life pressed against him, terrified by the thought that something could go wrong.
“I don’t have to go,” he tries, tasting the lie on his tongue, trembling with the force of too many emotions to label.
“Yes. You do.”
It is then he sees the lone tear break free from her lashes, followed by another he catches with his thumb. The contact with her grief is too much, and it punches his squarely, releasing his own tears as too much to speak bears down on them both.
She leans up to kiss him, showing him how hard this is, assuring him of her devotion, communicating her love. He throws himself into it, unleashing a passion birthed on a night most unexpected, remembering months and months of wooing and courting, tasting the joy that overtook him the moment she said yes. Lips open, tongues seek, touching the tender and the untamed. Teeth tingle, mouths plunder, fingers grasping to every last second through clothing and uncertainty.
“I love you, Mary,” he breathes hoarsely, stroking the outline of her womb. “All three of you. Kiss George for me. Read our favorite story to him while I’m gone. And tell our baby that her Papa loves her.”
I love you, she caresses across the lines of his face, whispers onto his cheek with a brush of her lips, speaks into his soul through an open-mouthed kiss, one he translates and understands with a fervor that rocks him.
“It could be a boy,” she verbalizes, drawing back slightly, sniffing back tears she will reign in until she is alone in her bedroom.
“And I’ll be delighted either way,” he assures her, kissing her temple, pressing the scent of rosewater into his subconscious.
They stand together, connected and whole until the ship signals that he must now board. Her eyes follow him as he moves away, watching his figure move into their future, a future with challenges they must now both embrace. He waves from the railing, blowing her a kiss she feels and will cling to over weeks she must now sleep alone yet again.
It is different, she assures herself, wiping her cheek, steadying her frame, chasing shadows from the cobwebs of memories still tender.
Two inheritances. Two estates. Two children.
And he will come back.
26 notes (via lala-kate)
"im not a feminist"
68 794 notes (via theashleyclements & leaveyourkeyinthemailb0x)
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