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#downton abbey

Isobel & Violet: *are in disagreement, again*

Violet: Can you just agree with me once?

Isobel: I could.

Isobel: But then we’d both be wrong.

6 notes

Moodboards of Marvelous Men

6/13

Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham (Downton Abbey)

Blue-blooded virtue, devotion to duty, unerring kindness, faltering from wounded pride, deep love of wife and family, elegant taste in literature and drink, aristocratic endeavors, clinging to tradition as a way of begrudgingly progressing in the changing modern world

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Title: I Didn’t Mean To Miss It.

Fandom: Downton Abbey

Genre: Family

Main Characters: Single Father Richard Grey . Daughter O.C.

Side Characters: Mentions of Elise Hughes, Doctor Clarkson.

Warnings: Mentions of Titanic Sinking, believed to be dead, loss of limb, Mentions of amputation.

Synopsis: It is Christmas Eve, and only mere days following the Lord Merton’s birthday and though it should be a time of unbound merriment the Lord Merton can feel none as only eight months prior lost his only child and daughter to the great Titanic Tragedy, entirely unaware of the fact that the one person who can make his Christmas is in fact stepping through the doors of Downton only an hour from the Holiday’s Morning.

                                                           : :

I cannot possibly fathom what Papa must have been going through these eight months. After I have been made all to aware of the fact that I am believed to be dead following the Titanic’s sinking. Though this is something I would have already guessed considering how long I have been away and having no contact with anyone I know for just as long.

My memory of the sinking itself is mostly vague though unfortunately I recall my own horrific experience during the those four hours of hell quite vividly and I doubt that I will ever not. 

My gate is awkward and balance far less than good yet with the lower half of my right leg now gone it is to be expected. Thankfully though I am not alone, being escorted into Downton’s estate by the family’s Doctor Richard Clarkson.

“Careful now, this step might be a bit harsher.” I am gently told and I lightly smile.

“Thank you for helping me Doctor.” I retort to which I can feel my arm being gently squeezed.

“There is no need for that, I am more than glad to offer you my assistance Miss Grey.”

Out of habit my eyes flicker up to view the sky.

“Do you think my Papa will be up still?”

There is a brief pause.

“With his heartbreak I doubt he will have gone to bed even at this hour.”

My lips down turn a bit, an undoubtable pressure weighing down on my chest.

A fierce wind suddenly blows passed and Doctor Clarkson has to add a bit more pressure on my arm and hold onto my waist to keep me upright his brow furrowing ever so much as he worries the next will send me falling.

“Come.” he soothes habitually glancing at the bodiless advisory. “Let us get you inside.”

The halls of Downton feel warm and as I am lead down the entry hall and to the main room where the massive Christmas tree stands tall and proud can I feel the heat that much more.

Guiding me into the room I am helped to sit on the sofa not that far from the window a slight hiss passing my lips as my prosthesis has decided then to pinch my skin.

“That is enough prosthesis use for one day.” Doctor Clarkson informs me as he kneels down to help me remove it. “I believe it would be best that you don’t use it anymore for a while, your stump is still healing and I it appears to a bit red.”

“But what am I to do if I must go somewhere?” I ask then worry overtaking my eyes as I look back at the  physician  currently removing my artificial leg.

“You will be carried.” 

Walking is an exhaustion, at least for now and the longer I am seated the harder it is for me to remain awake. I fall asleep not long after my prosthesis is removed.

With a gentle smile pulling along his mouth Doctor Richard Clarkson gestures for Mrs. Hughes to head off, knowing that she will certainly be going to tell Amelia’s Father that he wishes to see him.

It is a little passed eight in the morning and beyond Mrs. Hughes no one has entered the main room. Remaining closely by the still sleeping woman Doctor Clarkson allows his gaze to drift across the room at the sound of incoming feet and in moments he finds the Lord Merton stepping in.

The two men lock eyes and with a soft gesture behind him Clarkson is stepping away allowing just enough of the woman to be seen for the Lord Merton to register her properly.

He is across the room in seconds.

“I would explain it all to you but I believe this is something your Daughter should voice.” Clarkson admits as he observes the Baron worriedly eye the stump that is now being held carefully within his palms.

A jagged breath can be seen leaving the mans mouth, his gaze flickering back to view the Doctor of whom has remained near by.

“I will give you time.” he then utters before stepping away and leaving the room entirely.

For a while longer Amelia remains fast asleep the Lord Merton merely spending this time trying his best to comprehend what he is seeing. As if he is still not all that sure of it all.

There is a shifting though which catches his attention and in moments his Daughter’s eyes have fluttered open and are peering back at him.

“Papa.” I breath, raising my form enough to be able to properly hug him. “I didn’t mean to miss your birthday.”

With a watery laugh passing his lips Papa merely tightens his hold on my body, his chin resting lightly upon my head.

“There is no need for that, you’re here now and that is all that matters.”

“You promise?” I ask as I pull back enough to have a proper look into my Father’s eyes.

Tenderly looking upon me my Father lightly strokes my cheek with his right hand, much as he did when I was a child.

“I promise.”

                                                      ~

                                                    end

0 notes

If I had a shilling for every time a Downton Abbey character responded with how much their thoughts were worth after being asked, “penny for your thoughts?”, I’d have enough to pay for their responses. Which isn’t a lot, but weird that multiple characters measure the value of their thoughts in money, even if metaphorically

14 notes

i forgot what happens in s5 when do mary and mabel lane fox smooch.

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I don’t know why it’s happening or how long it’ll last, but I’m writing some Richard and Isobel all of a sudden. I blame the wonderful Jihope thing I’m in the middle of reading for the burst of inspiration.

And because I’m that bitch, I’m gonna tease.


(Here goes nothing … pardon me while I vanish back beneath the rock from whence I came.)

Hot off the press:

She contents herself with his mouth: the taste of his breath and the curl of his tongue; he gives up the most delightful little exclamations —half a gasp, half a moan— when she nips at his lips. But soon she is tugging at his collar, pulling his shirttails free from the waistband of his trousers and yanking at the cuffs of his sleeves. It’s on the tip of his tongue to remark about her eagerness —get her blood up a little—, but when she pushes his vest up to his ribs, when warm palms skim along the vee where his abdominal muscles meet his hips, the cheek is swiftly and decisively silenced.


She swallows his sounds, her chest heaving with the effort of breathing between kisses. “Richard.” She sits up, pushing at his chest until he follows, the hem of his vest bunched in her fists. “Need to feel you.”


He grunts and it’s primal; he’d be mortified under any other circumstances but for now he sheds his shirt, unbuckles his belt, opens his flies. He can feel the heat of her eyes on him, doesn’t need to look at her to know, but oh!, when he does.


He watches her drink him in as he toes off his shoes —thank fuck for late spring and boat shoes because there is absolutely nothing sexy about socks, nor the shedding thereof in the heat of the moment. But as it is he kicks his shoes away and drops his trousers, stepping out of them with just enough bravado and swagger to leave her gaping. He has no idea what comes over him, but, spurred on by her response, he traces his palms over his abdominal muscles as he raises the hem of his vest, pulling it over his head and tossing it away.


She gasps, then giggles a little. “Are you mad? What’s got into you?” But when, not a moment later, he’s caught her about the waist and is lifting her dress overhead, she shivers in his arms. She’s had him in the palm of her hand all afternoon, but two can play at this game.


Her bra follows directly, and he is always so careful about these things: asking, and then asking again, whether she’s ready; peeling her out of her underthings with tenderness and reverence. But not today. He uses his proximity to propel her backwards again, her calves hitting the chaise, and she half-sits, half-falls down as he stalks towards her. He’s been hard, aching with it for hours now, and he palms himself over his shorts as much for his own benefit as hers.


“I was rather thinking I’d like to get into you,” he snarls, inserting himself into her space, chasing her down to lie against the throw pillows. And yes, it’s trite, and it’s got them both laughing because he doesn’t do this, but they’re tussling and kissing and good-naturedly battling for dominance and it’s everything: warmth and skin and sweetness, heat arcing between them as she pins him beneath her, pressed hip to hip. The joyous little cry of victory she gives; the smile that starts in her eyes and lights up her face. Love. This love of theirs that radiates from her every pore, that leaves him longing to gather her to him and shag her senseless in equal measure.


“Ah, fuck,” he declares, arms dropping to the cushion under him in surrender. The heat of her, damp through her knickers and his shorts, relentless as her hips begin to work against him in hypnotic little circles. He doubts she even knows she’s doing it, lost as she is in her appraisal of him. Strong, delicate fingers trail over his chest, tracing circles around a nipple. She hums in the back of her throat, knows that she’s driving him to the brink of madness.


“You are lovely,” he rumbles. His hands ghost against her hips as he rocks his pelvis against hers, desperate to hold her, contain her, and at the same time, let her fly. She throws her head back at the contact and now her torso is one continuous, graceful arch. The warm weight of her breasts fills his palms and he wants this image etched onto the backs of his eyelids, memorialised for all of time. He strokes her nipples, grinning at the way she writhes above him and murmuring filth in her ear. (“Oughtta put my mouth right there, reckon you can take it? Make you come just like that, so fucking pretty.”)


He’s wicked, and she’s weak for it. Entirely at his mercy. She’s given up fighting it; there are worse fates by far. She collapses against him, bare breasts to bare chest and even if they find themselves in this position a thousand times it will always feel like the first time to her. She breathes it in: the moment; the ache deep within crying out to be assuaged, and the conflict; yearning to remain exactly as they are now. And therein lies her rejoinder, and she curls close, the tip of her tongue tracing the shell of his ear. “Not if I get to you first.”


He pushes at her shoulders till she levers up, arching a brow at her. “Well, well,” he breathes, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “Game, set, and match to Dr. Crawley. I dare say, very well played, love.”


She grins and it’s blinding. Thrilled with herself; thrilled with him. Grateful beyond measure for this evening, this life. This man; this love. “That’s Mrs. Clarkson to you.”


“Damn right,” he grunts, kissing her, and she giggles against his lips.


“Oh, do shut up,” she whispers, punctuating it with a kiss, “and let me put my money where my mouth is.” They’re absurd and giddy, breathless with laughter, and he thinks tipsy Isobel just might be his favourite.


“Sod the money. Just give me that wonderful proliferative mouth of yours, eh?”

2 notes

lady flintcher: please say nice things about me to my daughter, cora.

also lady flintcher: *steals cora’s maid*

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Downton Abbey takes place like a hundred years ago, but literally no one seems alarmed by the fact that Cora is actually a robot.

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I just watched the episode of Downton Abbey where my favourite character dies with the knowledge that my OTHER favourite character dies a few episodes later. Why

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today I treated myself by rewatching the downton abbey movie for first time since it came out - I don’t know what took me so long.

what an unusually satisfying sequel - they really managed to put everything in that the fans wanted, and a little more. the thomas plot, anna and john, the mary and violet scene… loved it! also the casting of the royal family was incredible. if you look it up, they look so much like their historic counterparts.

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I feel like this is a perfect describition why Chuck and Blair had to be the endgame.

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Sure there are multiple things that don’t make sense, can’t be fully understand and may seem like a breaking point, things that may seem like the reason to end it.

There might be people who on paper seem like a better match but love is not mathematical equation, there might be people who may seem more deserving of your love but you can’t fool your heart no matter how much you sometimes may want to, you can’t kill the feeling.

Love that was between Chuck and Blair was a love that wouldn’t allow them to be fully happy with anyone else as there would always be this longing, this unspoken feeling that is too powerful to be killed. They could have an easier life but that would be a life that would always be missing something and they would always wonder what could have been.

11 notes
Shall You Be My New Romance - Chapter 1 - Lacerta26 - Downton Abbey [Archive of Our Own]
https://archiveofourown.org/works/28814379/chapters/70668369
4 notes