Tell me you have daddy issues without telling me you have daddy issues
I’ll go first.
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

ellievsbear

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Monterey Bay Aquarium

if i look back, i am lost
Not today Justin
Three Goblin Art
Cosmic Funnies

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

titsay

PR's Tumblrdome
RMH

★

Kiana Khansmith

oozey mess

No title available
Jules of Nature

Janaina Medeiros
🪼
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@magikturtle96
Tell me you have daddy issues without telling me you have daddy issues
I’ll go first.
Pt 3 Secretary
The afternoon had bled into a bruised purple evening, and the office was once again settling into its nocturnal hush. The gold fern brooch was pinned to your lapel, a small, glittering weight that felt like a brand.
Thomas hadn't emerged from his office since the brothers left. The only sign of life was the occasional scratching of a nib against parchment and the clink of a crystal decanter. You were clearing your desk, preparing to lock the ledger in the safe, when the heavy street door didn't just open—it hit the wall with a violent crack.
The Intruder
A man stumbled in, his breath hitching in wet, ragged gasps. He was dressed in a suit that had once been expensive but was now stained with soot and sweat. This was Silas Vane, a factory owner whose gambling debts had recently seen his deed transferred into the ledger you had just closed.
"Where is he?" Vane roared, his eyes bloodshot and wild. "Where’s the devil who took my livelihood?"
You stood up, your movements calm despite the spike of adrenaline. "Mr. Vane, the office is closed. You’ll need to make an appointment through the proper channels."
"Proper channels?" Vane laughed, a jagged, hysterical sound. He lunged toward your desk, slamming a heavy, grease-stained hand down near your typewriter. "He took my father’s mill on a card game! I have workers to pay! I have a name!"
"You have a debt, Mr. Vane," you said, your voice dropping an octave, steady and cold. "And Mr. Shelby does not appreciate unannounced guests."
The Shadow in the Doorway
Vane didn't listen. He reached out, grabbing your shoulder with a bruising grip, his face inches from yours. "You’re just his little bookkeeper, aren’t you? Tell him to come out, or I’ll start breaking things he actually cares about."
The click of a pistol hammer being cocked back was the only warning.
"Let go of her."
The voice was quiet—frighteningly quiet. Thomas was standing in his doorway, the shadows cutting across his face so only one crystalline blue eye was visible. He held his Webley revolver with a casual, practiced ease, the barrel pointed directly at Vane’s throat.
Vane froze, his hand trembling on your shoulder. "Shelby... you can’t just—"
"I said," Thomas stepped into the light, his expression a mask of murderous indifference, "let go of her. Now."
The Aftermath
Vane recoiled as if burned, stumbling back toward the door. The sight of Thomas Shelby in the flesh, unbothered and armed, was enough to break what little courage the man had left.
"Get out," Thomas commanded. "If I see you on this street again, I won't use the gun. I’ll let my brother Arthur handle the conversation. And he isn't nearly as patient as I am."
Vane scrambled out the door, the sound of his frantic footsteps fading into the Birmingham mist.
Silence rushed back into the room, heavier than before. Thomas lowered the gun but didn't holster it. He looked at you, his chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. He walked toward you, his eyes fixed on your shoulder where Vane had grabbed you.
"Are you hurt?" he asked. It wasn't a boss asking a secretary; it was a man asking a woman.
"I'm fine, Mr. Shelby. Just a bit of rumpled wool." You tried to smooth your sleeve, but your hands were finally starting to shake.
Thomas saw the tremor. He reached out, his gloved hand steadying your wrist. He didn't let go. His gaze dropped to the gold brooch on your lapel, then back to your eyes.
"I told you the streets weren't safe," he murmured, his thumb brushing the underside of your pulse point. For a second, the office, the debts, and the war seemed a thousand miles away. "Perhaps you should move your desk into my office. From now on."
He didn't wait for an answer. He gently pulled you toward the inner office, as if the outer room had suddenly become too dangerous for you to occupy alone.
#gethimout2k26
inspired from @livingincolorsagain's post
@sassay-fox
@gaydadeddie asked: The first time Buck held Theo & The next time he held him 9-1-1, S06E18 & S09E17
Oh, does he
Hen looking after Buck. 9-1-1, S06E18 & S09E15
#damn
Pt.2 Secretary
The morning arrived with the typical Birmingham gloom—a thick, grey mist that smelled of coal smoke and damp stone. You arrived at the office at 7:30 AM, your coat still damp from the walk, but your head was spinning. The memory of his hand brushing yours and the low, gravelly admission that he didn't know what he’d do without you felt like a secret fever. Thomas was already in his office, a small light illuminating through the cracks in the door.
You had just set a fresh pot of tea to brew when the front doors swung open. It wasn't the usual quiet entry.
The Storm Before the Calm
Arthur and John Shelby burst in, their voices echoing off the high ceilings. They were arguing about a shipment of hijacked whiskey, their energy chaotic and jagged—a stark contrast to the heavy, intimate silence you had shared with Thomas only hours before.
"Where is he?" Arthur barked, slamming a fist onto your desk, rattling your pens. "Thomas! We’ve got a problem in Small Heath!"
"Mr. Shelby is in a meeting with himself," you said, your voice steady and cool as you stood up. You didn't flinch. You’d dealt with the Shelby brothers' tempers for two years; you were the only person in the building they couldn't intimidate. "And until he rings his bell, he is not to be disturbed. He was here until nearly one in the morning."
John smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "Listen to her, Arthur. The little general’s protector. She probably knows his mind better than we do."
Before Arthur could snap back, the bell on your desk chimed once. Sharp. Decisive.
The Morning After
"He’ll see you now," you said, though your heart hammered against your ribs.
The brothers piled into the inner office, leaving the door ajar. You went back to your filing, trying to focus, but you could hear the low rumble of Thomas’s voice cutting through his brothers' shouting. He sounded different—crisper, colder, wearing the mask of the Peaky Blinder leader once again.
Twenty minutes later, Arthur and John stormed out, looking chastened but redirected. Silence fell over the office again. You waited for the door to click shut, but it didn't.
"Tea," a voice called out.
You poured a cup, balanced it on a saucer, and walked into his office. Thomas was standing by the window, his back to you, watching the street below. He had changed into a fresh suit—charcoal grey—but the tension in his shoulders was the same.
"Your tea, Mr. Shelby. And the police reports from the Night Watch are on the corner of your desk."
The Unspoken Shift
He didn't turn around immediately. "Did Johnny get you home safe?"
"He did. Thank you."
Thomas finally turned. He looked at the tea, then up at you. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent in the morning light, but his gaze was piercing. He looked like he wanted to say something—perhaps apologize for the moment of vulnerability, or perhaps double down on it.
Instead, he walked over to the desk and picked up a small, velvet box that hadn't been there the night before. He slid it across the mahogany toward you.
"What is this?" you asked, hesitant to touch it.
"A bonus," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, yet he didn't look away. "For the late hours. For the... housing estate ledger."
You opened the box. Inside was a delicate gold brooch in the shape of a fern—intricate, expensive, and far too personal for a standard secretarial "bonus."
"Mr. Shelby, I can't—"
"I don't pay for incompetence, and I don't reward mediocrity," he interrupted, stepping closer until you could smell the peppermint he used to mask the whiskey. "You are neither. Wear it. Or sell it. I don't care. But don't tell me what you can’t do."
He sat down, immediately pulling a fresh stack of papers toward him, effectively dismissing you. But as you reached the door, his voice stopped you one last time.
"And buy yourself a heavier coat. It’s going to be a cold winter."
You walked back to your desk, the gold pin heavy in your hand. He still wouldn't look you in the eye for more than a second, but the "ghost" in the office had officially been haunting him.
HELLO everyone!! Ignore that I haven’t posted in 3 days okay… posting on here scares me a little still :,(
I finished published my first chapter of my (hopefully) first ever long-form fic and I’m super excited to share it here!!
It’s called ‘The Aftercare’. (The title is ironic on purpose).
I will be creating a playlist to go with it at some point :3
https://archiveofourown.org/works/83102236/chapters/218850216
If you think it’d be your taste please do check it out - I thrive on criticism and I really want to find other people who enjoy eerie and slightly unsettling atmospheres :,)
@sassay-fox
Sleepy girl
Summary: the one where Jack Abbot doesn't play about helping his girl get to sleep.
Masterlist
Warnings: porn without plot (what can i say, im just a girl) v sleepy (but consenting!!) reader, light subspace vibes, vaginal fingering, clit play/pussy rubbing, jack talks you through, sprinkle of praise, clothed play. I think that is allll for today's blasphemy
Tbh i cant say anything more than i got myself in a headspace and locked the fuck in, i need those fat finger inside me SO BAD im going insane
Intensely locked in on the thought of lazy fingering/pussy rubs w Abbot
The kind when it starts innocent after a long day, the pair of you cuddled up beneath a blanket on the bed.
She tells him everything is fine and essentially to fuck off, yet doesn't take her eyes off him for a second as he's walking away. She wanted him to stay so bad, and he did, in the moment she was slipping and needed someone most. The moment he sticks around, she allows herself a second of vulnerability in such a stressful shift. He affirms and comforts her, something she hasn't been able to get a lot of today. Their dynamic is genuinely so everything to me I can't :'(((
I hate to say it but I don’t think Bobby ever even considered Buddie being together like that….
Like I LOVE when fanfics pull a Bobby had already written up the relationship disclosure forms!!! It’s way more fun to think that way (especially because we can’t see his reaction when Buddie happens)
Bobby knowing Eddie would come back is such a sweet moment in 9x12 and pairing him up with Buck again for the games made me cryyyy and I do see that as a beautiful blessing from Bobby in a way…BUT I also think that says more about Bobby’s relationship with Buck and Eddie individually rather than his opinion on them as a COUPLE
That to me shows his faith in the 118 as a family that always sticks together and his confidence in Buck and Eddie as capable, mature firefighters!!! Like they used to be his probies!!!! :(((((
Ultimately, I think Bobby sees Eddie as a mirror to himself. A man who makes mistakes, is a father who tries and sometimes fails, and is deeply grieving his late wife. I don’t think Bobby sees Eddies terrible relationship with women as a signal for his queerness but rather a side effect of his grief…it is Bobby who (with the best intentions) pushed Eddie to date women in s6…like obviously he is an incredible ally in the show but he is still a middle aged man from the Midwest like he isn’t Captain Gaydar…
Is Bobby still the captain of the Buddie ship to me??? Ofc!! Would he be thrilled and the best wedding officiant ever??? Off!! That’s not question in my mind!!!
Ultimately he did pair Buddie up together deliberately as work partners KNOWING HOW PERFECTLY THEY FIT TOGETHER, but I just don’t think anything in the canon suggests he truly clocked their shit…
Realistically I can see the show having Athena tell Buck and Eddie that Bobby would have been really happy for them…but in that bittersweet, hypothetical way one does when something new happens that the dead can’t react to…
HOWEVER…if the show makes any comment from Athena that Bobby SAID they’d be good together or rips off ao3 and pulls out those rewritten relationship disclosure forms you will not see me complaining…I don’t think that’s realistic but bro I’d be weeping and screaming and taking all of this back
18+ minors dni
poor baby popey can’t stop eating u out ):
lowkey heard this song in my head while writing ok bye
(content : f recieving oral, andrew is a pathetic munch and a CRIER, reader passes out, dacryphilia, slight somnophilia if u squint, reader got a puss)
Pt 1. Secretary
The clock on the wall of the Shelby Company Limited office didn't just tick; it echoed. It was 11:42 PM, and the thick scent of whiskey and expensive tobacco had long since settled into the mahogany grain of the furniture.
You sat at your desk in the outer office, the rhythmic clack of your typewriter the only thing tethering the room to the waking world. You were finishing the ledger for the Garrison Lane properties—work that wasn’t due until Monday, but you knew Tommy would ask for it by dawn.
Inside the private office, a sliver of amber light spilled from beneath the door. Thomas Shelby was still there. He was always still there.
You knew his habits better than he knew your last name. You knew he took his tea with two sugars but usually let it go cold. You knew which files made his jaw tighten and which ones made him reach for the opium pipe he thought he hid so well.
To him, you were a ghost in a floral blouse. You were the "efficient one." The one who ensured his world didn't collapse into the Birmingham mud while he was busy fighting wars on three different fronts. You found him devastatingly handsome—the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the way his steady, sapphire eyes seemed to look through people—but you weren't delusional. Men like Thomas Shelby didn't fall for secretaries; they used them as structural support.
The heavy door creaked open. Thomas emerged, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up, revealing the faded ink of tattoos on his forearms. He looked exhausted, the kind of bone-deep weariness that a night's sleep couldn't fix.
He stopped at your desk, surprised to see you still there.
"The ledger for the housing estates," you said softly, sliding a perfectly organized folder toward the edge of your desk before he could even ask. "And I've rescheduled the meeting with the Italians for Tuesday. You’ll be in a better frame of mind by then."
Thomas stared at the folder, then at you. For the first time in months, his gaze didn't slide past you. It lingered.
"You’re still here," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
"Someone has to be, Mr. Shelby. The world doesn't stop turning just because the sun goes down."
He leaned against your desk, the smell of smoke and rain clinging to his heavy overcoat. He picked up the folder, flipping through the pages. His thumb brushed a note you’d made in the margin—a small correction to a math error he’d made earlier that afternoon.
"I made a mistake," he noted, his eyes tracking the ink.
"A minor one," you replied, keeping your voice professional despite the way your heart was drumming against your ribs. "Easily fixed."
"You fix a lot of things, don't you?" He looked up, his expression unreadable. "My schedules. My books. My brothers' messes." He paused, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. "I don't think I’ve ever seen you leave before I do."
"I prefer to see the job finished."
Thomas sighed, a sound of genuine defeat that he never allowed the world to hear. He reached out, his hand hovering near yours on the desk for a fraction of a second before he pulled back to rub his face.
"Go home," he said, though the command lacked its usual bite. It sounded almost like a plea for quiet. "The streets aren't safe at this hour. I'll have Johnny drive you."
"I can walk, sir. I'm used to the dark."
"I'm not asking," he said, regaining a flicker of that Shelby steel. He stepped closer, reaching down to close your typewriter case for you. As he did, his hand brushed yours—a brief, electric contact of skin against skin. He froze for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours, realizing perhaps for the first time that the woman who kept his life together was more than just a ghost in the office.
"You're too good for this place," he whispered, so low you almost missed it. "But God help me, I don't know what I’d do if you left."
He didn't say anything else. He simply turned, grabbed his cap, and waited by the door to escort you out. The distance was back, the professional wall rebuilt, but as you walked past him, you caught the slight softening of his mouth—a silent acknowledgement that he finally saw you.