#every time they show a glimpse of the house i'm always freeze-framing

[lucascsinclairs]

Set Design in Stranger Things 4

Chapter Six: The Dive

[monsterfloofs]

Vampiress ( Cordelia ) x Female reader ( Sfw )

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I have a big, big, love for spooky victorian vampires. . . and I tried to cram as much victorian vampire aesthetic as I possibly could eeeee < 3 I hope you enjoy miss lesbean vampiress!

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You pull the long curtains open to let in the moonlight. As the pale light is strewn across the floor, you pull out your matchbox, swiping a match alight to light the candle in your hand. Your job is almost done for the evening and it is time to head back to your mistress. Holding the candle up to your face as you trail your way along the dark winding halls. You can hear creaking around you, but you make sure to keep your gaze straight ahead and refuse to turn your gaze into the shadows. It’s a routine you do every evening when the large manor wakes up for the night and those who live there become active.

You’ve been employed under the wing of vampires for a few years now. Even then, you don’t really feel safe in this house. Feeling like prey at any moment you are deemed obsolete, or show weakness. The only time you feel safe is locked inside your room, or with her.

Cordelia.

You have vibrant, all too real dreams in the times you sleep, dancing with her in the ballroom, both of you wearing elegant ball gowns. Your name on her lips as she dips you backwards and presses her mouth to your throat. You awake in a cold sweat and trembling. It is a dance you have almost every night. A strange fear and exhilaration that makes you feel nauseous. It wasn’t that you were repulsed by her, not at all, she was an alluring beauty. With snowy white hair cut short and curled, luminous eyes, voluptuous lips. But Cordelia was cold, as cold as ice that frosts the window panes. You never could tell what she had going on in her mind. Secretive and aloof, yet still she pulled on your heart strings like they are laces of a corset, tighter and tighter until you could barely breathe easy around her. There were many times where you felt she cared for you deeply. The little things that she would do or say, praising you for a job well done. Taking interest in your opinions and pursuits. It would make your heart throb in your chest painfully. But her expression would never change, she always held such an icy countenance. She could seem so cold, you could feel the air freezing in your lungs. What became of that mixed emotion was a strange deep yearning. the same yearning that would creep into your head at night. You knew it was dangerous, but still you yearned. You yearned to warm her heart, with your own.

The years in which you had worked for her, you learned a lot about her and the rest of her ménage that thrived in the household. You could feel yourself falling deeper and deeper into her mystery. But you knew how much of a mistake it would be to get even more tangled up with the residents of the house. Not that you were not already in so deep, you were not sure if you would ever see the sun again.

 You stop in front of a dark wooden door that leads to the study, gently rapping your knuckles upon it's frame. "Miss Cordelia? The curtains have been drawn as per your request." You are politely invited inside and you close the door behind you. You find that she isn’t alone in the study and you freeze. Finding yourself being studied shrewdly by a few of the other occupants of the house. You swallow but smooth out your expression, attempting to look as blank and dull as you always did. Proper, and respectable. 

Cordelia sweeps over to you, blocking you from their stares. She turns her head back to look at them, her eyes narrowing, then she turns to you. “Thank you darling, I appreciate your hard work so very much.” You give a little quirk of a smile before her clawed hand tips up your chin. You freeze, your cheeks turning rosey. She leans down, her plump and chilly lips pressing into your own. Kissing you outright in front of her others. Your face turning, redder and redder, as you catch a glimpse of the scowling faces around you. Her eyelashes flutter as she cups your face. "My dear, would you be so kind as to put on the kettle for tea?" She doesn't bother looking at them, but she keeps her pale blue eyes trained on you. Staring deeply into yours. “I shall be up in my room, I shan’t linger much longer here.

"Y-yes ma'am" You stammer, she lets go of you and your stand giving a respectful bow to the dark beings around you before making a hasty exit. You can hear soft voices beyond the door, quiet but reproachful voices. You glance behind you before your eyes lower, you feel lightheaded, you clutch your heart and close your eyes. Miraculously you are able to find your way to the kitchen in your stupor. You start a fire and set up a tray for tea, trying to forget the feeling of her lips upon your own. You busy yourself the best you can, until the water is hot. Carefully pouring the hot water into a teapot, then hefting the awkward tray into your arms.

You walk slowly to her private room, and when you knock upon the door it opens on its own. You find her lounging on her chaise. “Darling,” Her red lips purse, looking at you with a cool appraising gaze. “Did I upset you?” You look down, not wanting to meet her eyes shaking your head, “No ma’am. . .” She reaches a clawed hand out to you, shifting her thighs on the plush cushions. “Come here.” You keep your head down but do as you’re told taking her hand. Her cool countenance watches you intently as her supple lips form a pout. “Then why do you look down?” you suck in a shaky breath, “I am just. . . worried about you miss, if I may be so bold. You shouldn’t have kissed me in front of your family, they are my superiors. . . as are you.”

"I couldn't care less what they think of me and my actions." She raises her chin defiantly, "They know very well my opinions. What I am more curious about is how you feel about them." She rests a sharp finger against her cheek as she watches you.

"Me miss?" 

"Yes," she murmurs, "Perhaps I am not doing this very well, I thought I was being forward with how I felt. . . Shall I try again?" 

"I'm not following," you echo blankly, she gives another one of her pristine pouts, grabbing your hand and pulling you down with a steely grip. You feel yourself topple into her, clumsily flopping on top of her shapely form. "Miss--" You squeak before she cups your face and kisses you hard. 

You feel your head swoon. Your heart feeling like it was going to jump out of your chest. You scramble, your hands on the back of the chaise pushing yourself up. You stare at her with round eyes, your mind in disarray. “P-please, stop teasing my heart. . .” You can feel tears start to run down your face as you weep, “I can bear it no longer. . .” Her own eyes widen as she watches you cry, the emotion almost seeming foreign to her. She reaches up brushing your tears away, and you shake with a sob. “I don’t understand you, I want to, I’ve tried. S-So hard--” Cordelia’s brows furrow, she grabs your wrists again, you struggle feebly before you find yourself on her lap. You shake and tremble before her clawed fingers run through your hair. 

“Oh darling. . .” She whispers softly, “I am so sorry,” she bows her head against yours, and through your tears you can see a very faint flash of emotion grace her features. She tilts your chin up and you blink hard, “I thought I had been obvious, with my feelings for you. That I love you, and have loved you for sometime.” A strange expression flickers over her face, “It’s hard. . . to share the same emotion you do, humans are so full of emotion, and we, so distant. But please, never think that I had been tormenting your heart. I would never wish to do that to you. Please dispel those thoughts from your mind.” You stare at her giving a sniffle as you see hurt reflecting in her own eyes. Your expression cracks and you throw your arms around her, the stress and the fear and the yearning all coming out at once in a fit of sobbing and tears. You hold onto her so tightly, and her expression falters, gently holding you in her arms until you no longer can weep. Your throat sore and your breathing is labored, she fixes you a cup of tea as you sit on her lounge chair sniffling from the remnants of your outburst.

“Th-they know then,” You whisper as she settles back down beside you, “Of course, I have told them many times, that I am fond of you and wish you to be my sweetheart. They wished to argue with me about it again tonight. Saying that it is ill-advised and foolish to love one that will not be able to understand time as you, and how life is so fleeting.” She rolls her eyes, “I do not care. It is my choice, and I shall choose whom I love.” You can feel your cheeks flush, realizing the scene in the study had been an act of defiance. By the time you had come to the door, they must have been arguing for some time. And to bring her point across that she wouldn’t budge, she had kissed you brashly right in front of them. “I w-wish you would have told me. . .”  “I thought you had known, I made a mistake and assumed that my hints were being understood, it was not right of me to treat you in that way.” She pauses before looking at you, “So I hope you shall converse with me now. . .” Her hand takes yours gently as she kisses your fingers. “I know not of how you feel about me. . . only that I have made you cry tonight. I never want that to happen again. I don’t think I could bear to see your pretty eyes full of tears.”

Your heart feels like it is pounding up your throat, as your reach for her cheek. Your hand shakes as you pet her lips, before you cup her chin and kiss her sweetly. She holds your waist and tugs you to her, and your arms gently slide around her sloping neck. The two of you kissing over and over until you have to turn away, to catch your breath. You shiver, as you feel her lips press against your neck. “Cordelia?” Your voice wavers unsure, her clawed fingers gently trace your throat as she leans up, “Worry not my love. . . I shan’t mark you until you wish me to. That will be a time when you are ready and unafraid.” A small smile tugs at her lips, “Though I do wonder what my family will say then. . . you best wear a scarf around your neck thereafter, or it may lead to scandal.” You feel your eyes go round at such a thought, and she gives the softest little laugh.

Little by little, she is warming to you, you can see more emotion move across her stoic visage. And you could start to see the little things that you had missed before, the sweet doting things and the little steps she would take to make sure you were comfortable and feeling safe in the dark house. Though being the rebellious woman that she was, she always made it a point to kiss you passionately when one of the ménage was nearby. It would frightfully embarrass you and once or twice you would catch the faintest of smiles on her lips as her eyes shone with a flash of mischievousness.   

[babylooneytoonz]

200 Followers Appreciation Post

I'll be very honest, two months back when I joined Tumblr, I hadn't expected that my writings will be read by many, and the last thing I had expected was to be followed. Now look far we've come, from 0 followers to 200.

A personal thank you and a lot of love to each and every follower of mine.

I think this is the best part of our fandom. We love each other like family.

As a little token of my thank you, I decided to publish two of my requests combined as one today. Hope you like it. 💓

Tommy Shelby x Fem! Reader

Request 1- Prompt "We can’t win. Either I have you and my soul sings but your cries, or we’re apart and your soul rejoices but mine dies."

Request 2- Reader was always in love with Tommy, thinking he can't love her back she starts writing cheap novels as a way to deal with it. Her books become popular and everything is cool until Tommy finds out about her hobby and notices similarities between her writing and real life.

Warnings - Angst

GIF Credits - @thomasshelbyltd thank you. ❤️

A Maid's Diary

 You slumped against your desk, letting your head rest against the old wooden table top, your elbows on either side of your face. Your desk was a cluttered mess, with sheets of paper flooded all over. In your hand, you held a pen, as you were just seconds back, scribbling vigorously on a parchment as an idea had just hit you, and just as swiftly, the idea had vanished from your mind.

You couldn't forget and you couldn't forgive your best friend, Linda, for having betrayed you by sharing your diary to a local printing press, who had, without your permission, published your countless feelings that you had penned down in your little diary, without even your consent, although they didn't take the credit for it. You were still the writer, even though the publishers never published your real name on it, just a pen name.

As much as you hated to admit it, the little push made by your friend had worked tremendously and your popularity had grown amongst the lower middle class especially; as that is where you hailed from. They loved your modesty, they loved how humble and down to earth you were, although you were extremely talented.

Little did they know, that the book that had been published, as an act of mistake, was actually based on your life.

"What is it that you are reading?" Tommy pushed his round glasses over his eyes, as he looked through them and fixed his broody stare on his wife.

Grace was sprawled on the couch in his study, shimmering in a beautiful pearl white satin nightgown hanging loosely over her slender frame, her natural blonde hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She seamlessly brought up her ring studded hand to her hair, running her fingers through the locks as her eyes came to rest on her husband.

"Would you look at this Tommy?" She raised a red little book in her hand, showing it to him briefly, before she sat back more comfortably. Their son, Charlie, crawled about on the carpeted floor, playing with a toy train. "I don't know who this woman is, but if you read this book, you would feel like you are a bloody part of it."

"Is it one of those fucking love stories again, Grace?"

"It's much more than that, love. It's complex. It's like reading a person's life, living her memories."

"Right, well, I'm out, I've got a bloody meeting with Arthur at the pub." He stood up, sliding his hand into his waistcoat and pulling out the pocket watch, taking a quick glance at it. He then kissed his wife a goodbye, lifting Charlie up in his arms, "Be good, you cheeky little oaf."

Little did he know, how that would be the last week, that he was spending home with his wife. The next week, Grace Shelby was shot, and she couldn't make it.

As days inched by, Tommy started growing more and more morose. Although he didn't show it, those around him felt it everyday. The snapping and the yelling increased, and Tommy found himself sleeping less and less, and chugging down more and more of that alcohol to keep his mind at rest. There were weeks when Tommy didn't see his son. Although he felt guilty, for neglecting him, as the poor child had lost his mother, just like he had lost his wife, he couldn't bring himself to face him, as he reminded him so much of her.

Soon, weeks turned into months and finally, Tommy's agony subsided to a bit. It wasn't as if it was an overnight process, but somehow, over the course of time, Tommy didn't feel the hurt anymore, as he initially did— or maybe, he learnt to live with it.

One night, when the nightmares crippled him to such an extent that he found himself unable to sleep, he decided to go through Grace's belongings, something he had kept locked up in the attic, afraid to touch them. Holding a lantern in his hand, he walked up the flight of stairs, the old floorboards creaking underneath the weight of his foot as he stepped into the dinghy little room. In a corner, a brown crate was hoarded up, keeping all of Grace's belongings.

Pulling off the the wooden board that was nailed shut, he pried it off and ran his hand through the dust coated silk dresses, his fingers gently brushing against the fabric. He let out a weak, pained exhale, slowly sliding down against the floor, pulling his hand out as he started fumbling around his pockets for a cigarette.

With a lit cigarette in his left hand, he slid his right hand back in, feeling around the box until his palm hit something hard. Pulling it out, he saw a little red book that was now turning a shade of purple at the edges. The book was coated in a sheet of dust, causing Tommy to squint his eyes slightly and scrunch up his nose as he brushed the dust off its cover.

A faint smile, a fond remembrance of Grace reading this book with such enthusiasm brought a weak smile to his lips. He took a drag of his cigarette, pulling himself off the floor and pocketed the book, walking out of the attic.

It was his eyes, eyes that could hold an entire ocean in them, that captivated me. I often found myself looking at him, stealing glances, when no one was looking. A part of me begged for his attention, hoping, yearning that he would atleast give me a glance but he never did.

The more he read through the passages, the more he realized what Grace had meant. This was not just a book, it was someone's life, it was someone's feelings. The words were simple and not at all fancy, the backdrop set was not that of a fine mansion, it was a tiny little house, in a clamoured street, a family of five siblings, four boys and one girl, and the writer, who was just a servant. The writer knew the love she felt for one of the sons of the house was wrong, improper and it was forbidden because she was a servant and they were her employers but she couldn't help how she felt, no matter how hard she tried to forget. Tommy couldn't help but feel drawn— drawn to the writer's pain, her anguish and the feeling of being stuck at the end of a self destructive, one sided love. He knew what it meant to not get to be with the person you loved. He had experienced the pain, although in a different sense but somehow, he could relate. Although Thomas Shelby didn't show any feelings, he had eventually fallen head over heels in love with Grace Burgess and life with her had been a life of roses and poppies, while he was a crown of thorns; that Grace bravely adorned on her head.

It was a cold night, and I was freezing. I could feel my cheeks turning to stone and my hands fervously rubbing against my arms to keep myself warm. I could see them right in front of my eyes; the whole family. They looked happy. They brothers were teasing their sister, who had a look of dismay plastered over her face, and the youngest brother, who was just a toddler, ran about the parlour, sucking on his thumb. I wondered if it was selfishly wrong of me to think of him in this way, to imagine how our little household would have been, had I been bound to him by marriage. I wondered if it was a sin, wondering what I would have named our children if we had a handful of them.

Thomas found himself leaning back comfortably in bed, straining into his glasses, wanting to read more, although his body and his eyes were beyond tired. It was as though he could see a glimpse of his life before the war had been, right through someone else's eyes. He could see little Finn, perched on the carpeted floor, running his toy train all over it, making a weird engine sound with his mouth while John and Arthur teased Ada for something she had probably said. He could picture himself by the window, staring at the dimly lit sky, the illuminating stars, thinking of the moment Greta took her last breath, her frail hand falling limp in his warm one.

How unlucky had he been with women, he had watched the women he loved die, in in his arms.

As I scrubbed the dishes in the kitchen, I could hear the curses in the parlor. He was screaming at himself, bringing the dishes down, breaking them one by one. No one dared stop him, because no one wanted to be slammed against the wall or have to be the one taking a porcelain hit on his face. I wondered if I should step in, maybe give him some tea but I didn't. Maybe, he didn't need it. It was only later that I found out he had lost the love of his life.

He shoved the book aside and sat up straighter, running his palm through his face, his breathing shaky and rushed. He grabbed his cigarette box off the bedside table and lit himself a cigarette. Maybe reading this book had been a mistake, it was opening up all his raw wounds that he had buried away.

He was leaving. I wanted to ask him when he would be back but of course, that would have been such a silly question. And besides, he had a lot more on his plate, why would he want to speak to a servant? I stood behind the kitchen wall, listening to the solemn parting, the shuffling of feet, listening to them leave until finally I could hear them no more— I could hear him no more.

Years after years, I went on with life, with a smile on my face. I did what I always did in the mornings; scrubbing the floors clean, washing the dishes, preparing supper and doing the laundry. At night, though, I thought of him and his blue eyes. I wondered if there was any news, for I hadn't heard anything about him in ages. Maybe my prayers were finally answered, the war ended and they all were back home. Only they weren't themselves. The war had killed a part of them. They were the ghosts of war, left to meander the Earth until they finally died.

"Mr. Shelby?" Tommy sharply looked up, his eyebrows straightened into a visible frown.

"Yes, Mary?"

"Charlie's asleep, the supper's ready. I was wondering if I could get a night off—"

"Mary, you may. You have bloody worked hard enough to earn a night off. Go on then, hurry up, it's pretty dark outside."

He watched her leave, staring at the door before bringing his gaze back to the book, wondering if the writer was out there somewhere. And he wondered, and hoped, that she had finally gotten to be with the man she loved. She deserved it. She deserved all the happiness in the world.

I finally mustered the courage, after what seemed like eternity, to speak my heart out. I was afraid of rejection, but he deserved to know. I deserved to be free of this heavy secret in my heart. I didn't care if he would ask me to leave, stop coming to work from tomorrow but he needed to know I loved him. So, I stepped out into the chilly night, wrapping myself with whatever warm I could find. I walked and walked, until I was at his pub. Of course, he wasn't there. With a heavy heart then, I thought of going back home, through an alley, that was a shorter route. Little did I know, I was never going to get the man I loved for he already had the woman he loved, the woman from the pub; that barmaid. I saw the man I was in love with, from a window, the way I always imagined him to be with me, kissing her and stroking her cheeks. It was as though I heard a devastating sound somewhere close by, but it was nothing but my heart—shattered into two.

Thomas Shelby was many things, but he was not ignorant, or dumb. He slammed the book shut, shoving it on the bedside table. His heart was racing rapidly and he could feel blood rush through his veins. Arching his body forward, placing his elbows on his thighs, he buried his face into his palms. Every single detail in the book, every single piece of writing was something he had experienced before. It couldn't be a mere coincidence, could it? He slid out of bed, stomping through the hallway into his study until he was perched on a stool by the telephone his fingers frivolously moving against it. He knew what he had to do now.

"Pol?" He mumbled into the phone the instant he heard her on the other side.

"Tommy? It's fucking midnight, what's the bloody matter?" Tommy didn't mind he had woken her up. He needed answers.

"Do you remember a maid that worked for us?" He sighed into the receiver.

"Tommy, we have hired a dozen fucking maids, which one are you talking about?"

"She was with us when Greta died, when we went to war—"

On the other side of the telephone, Polly's demeanour softened. She remembered you, she even knew how you loved Thomas, but she could never bring it up to her lips, because she knew that you and Thomas had no future.

"Yes."

"Do you know where she is? And for fucks sake, don't lie."

Your coffee mug lay on the table untouched, smoke bellowing out of it in waves. Outside your window, snow drizzled from the sky, like tiny droplets of fur falling to the ground, your garden sheeted in pristine virgin white.

"Love, you have to bloody see this," your friend Linda's voice echoed through the closed door, loud enough to alert you.

"What is it?" You threw open your window, watching your bestfriend stand at the gate, her eyes fixed to your window, "Just get your bloody arse down here (Y/N), I have to show you something. Come on out, now."

Annoyance.

You practically ran down the flight of stairs, not even stopped to calm your breaths.

"Jesus, Linda, it's fucking snowing, I'm going to freeze to—"

"Sorry love." Linda gave you an apologetic smile, her index finger pointing towards the silhouette of a man leaning by your front gate, slowly sliding out of the periphery of gaze. Neither were you watching her. You were watching a ghost of your past, that stood leaning by the metal gate on your front door, a cap on his head, a long overcoat drawn over his scrawny body. He had gotten weaker than you had last seen him.

"Miss (Y/N)." His voice was curt, yet warm, without a trace of malice in it. After all these years, he was right here, on your doorstep.

"Mr. Shelby? Would you like to come in?"

He shook his head, rather, his eyes and you knew that he didn't want to talk in the confines of your home, under prying eyes. He slowly pulled out a book from his pocket and your eyes widened. Your fingers flew to your lips and you felt a rush of blood in your body, an instant feeling of being in the warmth of a fireplace. You wanted to reply, but you couldn't find the words.

"You read my book, you found me out."

"It wasn't that fucking difficult to figure it out, love."

"Jesus, would you please come in? It's freezing out here, you're going to bloody catch a cold—"

He cut you off as you turned to walk in, grabbing you by your arm, not hard, but firm enough to stop you from walking. He then pulled you towards him, your front hitting his hard chest, to look into his face.

"It was you all along?"

You didn't know what to say anymore. He had found you out. After all these years.

"I don't understand—" You whispered, shaking your head. You couldn't lie, his eyes were making you nervous and all the feelings that had simmered over the course of time were finally lighting up again. "I'm sorry, I didn't know it will get published."

"Do you believe in destiny?" He cut you off.

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to mentally think where he was going with this, "Perhaps, Mr. Shelby, but you need to be clearer than that."

"I didn't believe in fucking destiny, until this minute. I can't believe I'm fucking saying this—" You could see reluctance in his eyes, an inward fighting. You could see that he was thinking hard, probably having a hard time figuring out what he should say to you. "You remember Greta?"

You were hundred percent sure you weren't smiling, but had you been smiling, it would have withered.

"Yes, Mr. Shelby, the girl that died holding your hand, the girl you loved."

"Good, and what about Grace? The woman you saw at the fucking window."

Your cheeks reddened at the remark with embarassment, making you regret how he had read that part. That was a private thing between Thomas and Grace.

"I didn't mean to pry, I was just passing through the alley and I looked up and I —" You voluntarily bit on your tongue in an attempt to silence yourself because you knew you were babbling and your words were not making much sense. You needed to compose yourself, compose your thoughts.

"I married her, yeah? And do you know what happened then?"

You closed your eyes briefly, hoping he wouldn't see the pain in your eyes. When you blinked your eyes open again, you straightened slightly, almost taking a step away from him. He caught your arm, pulling you back to him.

"We have a lovely boy together, Charlie, he's three almost."

You wondered if Tommy was here to chastise you, to make you apologize, or maybe, your book had caused a rift in their marriage.

"She was shot. Fucking took a bullet that was meant for me. I fucking watched her die. Twice, (Y/N). I think it was my destiny. Will you ask me why?"

"Mr. Shelby—" You hopelessly began, trying to tell him how sorry you were about what had happened. But what could you do? It wasn't as if you had shot Grace.

"Just bloody ask me why."

You stiffened at the harshness of his voice.

"I- Why?"

"Because this fucking destiny had something else in mind for me. Perhaps it was you all along, the one I was maybe meant to be with."

Your eyes widened in surprise at his words, a sudden palpitating feeling in your heart, a sudden throbbing in the back of your mind. You pulled your arm away, wincing slightly at his sudden outburst, instantly moving away.

"Your words make no sense. Will you please stop?"

He parted his lips in an attempt to reply, but all that shot out of his plump lips was foggy winter air and he shut it. His hand flew to the side of your face, but he didn't touch you. He merely took a loose strand of your hair, curling it over his index finger. You could feel the sudden tension, his lips so close to you, you knew if you didn't stop him, he would kiss you. And later regret it.

"Mr. Shelby, this is a mistake. If I was your destiny, I would be the one buried in a grave and not the women you loved. I did love you," you spoke, hopelessly pulling yourself one step away but this time he didn't make an attempt to pull you close, perhaps having sensed your reluctance.

He raised his eyebrow, "Did?"

"I still do, but I don't think we were meant to be."

"I see," he almost stepped closer, reluctantly, fighting for control at the back of his mind. This was a new feeling. He knew he didn't love you yet, but at the same time, he knew he was in love with the woman from the book. The woman who had always loved him.

"Why?"

A single word can hold a vast meaning. A single word can have an answer that you could probably write a book on.

"Because Thomas .. We can’t win. Either I have you and my soul sings but your cries, or we’re apart and your soul rejoices but mine dies," you whispered in a low voice, tears shrouding into your eyes.

"Yet there's a bloody thing that binds us to each other. Something neither you nor I can see," he mumbled under his breath, sliding his hand into his pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes.

You didn't know what to say to him. Your mind was fervently throbbing through your skull. Your heart leapt with joy but your mind didn't let you be at ease. He waited a few seconds but when he realized you had made up your mind, he decided he will not push you. You had given him the answer. You didn't want him. He nodded softly, letting his eyes wander down to your feet for a bit before giving you a last look as he turned his tail and started walking off, his boots crushing the snow as he started walking away.

And just like that, you realized that history was repeating itself. But this time, it was all your fault. You were letting him walk away when you could finally be happy.

"Thomas stop.." His name flew out of your mouth even before you could clamp your mouth shut. You saw him freeze, but this time, he didn't turn your way, but with his back turned towards you, you missed the hint of a smile that crossed his lips; the way you had stopped him meant that he still had hope.

"I would like to work for you again, does Charlie need a nanny?" You bit your lip.

It was nothing, but yet, it was a start. If destiny really wanted the two of you together then you wanted to try it out from the beginning, maybe make the man fall in love with you and not the woman who wrote the book. You wanted him to love you and not pity you.

"Twenty shillings, you stay at the Arrowe House, no further will be discussed on that, yeah?"

You gave him a weak smile, although you could not see his face.

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Mr. Shelby, first thing in the morning at 9."

He nodded and then, sliding his hands into his pockets, he walked away, his heavy boots crushing the snow underneath, generating a squishing, crunching sound until you could hear him no more. You couldn't wipe that smug smile from your face as you looked up at the sky, scrunching up your nose when you felt something cold; perhaps a snowflake had landed on the tip of your nose. It was a start, a start of a new day and who knew, perhaps a new life for you. Needless to say, you were excited.