#Only the wild ones

[everythingelseisextra]

Only The Wild Ones

Moodboard by @runnning-outof-time (thank you so much!)

Your whole life, you've been running, desperately seeking safety from a past you want to forget. You spend your time working yourself into exhaustion, then getting up the next day to do it all again. When a powerful but vulnerable Thomas Shelby comes into the picture, you're convinced, for once in your life, to stand and fight.

Part One: Everything Is Fine

Part Two: Commit To The Bit

Part Three: Treasure The Memory

Part Four: Petty Criminal

Part Five: Give Yourself A Reason

Part Six: My Body Is Here

Part Seven: Lingering In Doorways

Part Eight: First Time

Part Nine: Stand Your Ground

Part Ten: Work

Part Eleven: You're Like Me

Part Twelve: Run, Little Girl

Part Thirteen: Horse To Water

Part Fourteen: Come Home (Tommy's POV)

Part Fifteen: David and Goliath

Part Sixteen: Cain (Tommy's POV)

Part Seventeen: The Ends Of The Earth

Part Eighteen: Love Song (Tommy's POV)

Part Nineteen: No Harm

Part Twenty: Scar Tissue

[runnning-outof-time]

Only The Wild Ones

Series summary: Your whole life, you've been running, desperately seeking safety from a past you want to forget. You spend your time working yourself into exhaustion, then getting up the next day to do it all again. When a powerful but vulnerable Thomas Shelby comes into the picture, you're convinced, for once in your life, to stand and fight.

Moodboard inspired by @everythingelseisextra ‘s beautiful series

———

Eli….I know that I’ve not finished reading this amazing story yet, but I just couldn’t stop myself from making this moodboard. I saw the middle picture while scrolling Pinterest and the rest came easily. I hope you find it to fit the tone of the series properly. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. Thank you for sharing your amazing talent with us 💕

[bumbleboa]

I saw one scruffy older Cora-san design and had to draw my take on it immediately, with a bonus Law to fill space.

You can say a lot of things about One Piece Odyssey, but it did give us a Law & Cora tag-team fight in which Law shambled to the location of Cora's bullets and that is just objectively cool.

[mike-wachowski]

reblog and tag ur answer so I can see please :)

[mooncrisisdepression]

The fandom collectively sort of agreed that Zelda was a bad cook without a lot of evidence

That was until Age of Calamity came along and actually proved the fandom right!

However, there is a side quest in Tears of the Kingdom that implies she can cook actually

And the only reasonable explanation to this is that Link taught her, obviously

[nell0-0]

Based on a fic called A Wild Time at Calamity Ganon

This was a gift fic from @musical-chan about Mask ending up at the end of another hero's journey (Wild). Yeah, I'm still thinking about this fic aksgfshdn

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

"What do you mean their name isn't Beef?"

(for @moondal514)

[villanelleskiss]

i’m forever going crazy over the fact that Zelda used to think she was nothing as a person bc she couldn’t awaken her sealing power when every eye of hyrule was on her and she couldn’t protect them and her own father even had her believing that. so when she met sonia and rauru (even true with urbosa) and they gave her the guidance and comfort she needed to freely use her powers on her own schedule that when she was able to blast away those moldugas with ease that she was in disbelief of herself bc she didn’t think she was capable of doing that. so when she made the choice to turn into a dragon to restore the master sword, it was her final message to herself and the future of hyrule that she wouldn’t let herself be nothing (like she was always told she was) by that final selfless act of love for her kingdom and im a mess about it

[blueskittlesart]

Now that you're gone

[dryya-doesnt]

Haven’t posted here in a while!!! Have some zelink during these trying times (finals) they’re SOOOOO cute URGH AUGUHH OUGRRGHHH

[cosmicquill]

I'm always like "Oh yeah the Nightmare Times are some of my favourite content Starkid has ever put out, but they're fun additional stories and not necessarily essential for people to watch if they're into the Hatchetfield musicals." And then I think about CCRP's future or Homeless Man or Pete's brother or Miss Holloway and I'm like OH MY GOD THEY DON'T KNOW. THEY DON'T KNOW. THEY LACK CRITICAL INFORMATION. THEY DON'T--

[everythingelseisextra]

Commit to the Bit

Part One: Everything Is Fine

Part Three: Treasure The Memory

Description: Your first real meeting with Thomas Shelby does not go quite as planned. Warnings: Language Word Count: 1751 Author's Note: Each chapter will be progressively longer. PLEASE let me know what you think. Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @look-at-the-soul

You wake up a little before dawn.

The night air surrounds you, the windows open, as you sit and eat your pitiful breakfast in your pitiful kitchen, the cabinets stopping your chair from going too far back, the sink a little too close to the table. You wear the same clothes as the day before. Your body aches and your head rings from a faint hangover, and exhaustion ripples through you like chills. Through the windows, you can still see the moon, hovering above the horizon, faint in the gray light. 

You leave your house before the sun is fully up. Pale light filters into the hayloft windows, giving you some sight as you open the barn doors. The horses nicker to you, expecting their grain, weaving back and forth in their stalls or bobbing their elegant heads. You mindlessly fill their buckets with each individual’s specialized diet, mind elsewhere. 

Expect me tomorrow morning. 

When? How would he find the barn? You gave vague directions, hoping it would deter him. And, most importantly, what would he want once he got here? You couldn’t give him anything. You barely had enough to keep yourself going, to keep the days going. You worry that, although you have nothing to give, he’ll still decide to take. He’ll come with that bold intensity you saw the night before, and you’ll find yourself trapped, invisible walls closing in, with no strength to stand up.

Horses fed, you move on to saddling and riding your first horse. A stallion, with a sweeping, arched neck and muscles filled out to perfection, chestnut coat shining. He’s your stud, and you make some money off of selling his coverings. His registered name is Speed of Fire, ironic considering he was never fast enough to race, even before his injury, but you affectionately call him Draco. 

Dressage saddle girthed up, you swing your leg over his back and start your ride in the arena. You work through his warm up, making sure he stretches his body in the proper ways, then start asking for more intricate movements; canter pirouettes, passage, piaffe. Your breath comes short, your muscles tense and relax, your hips move with the motion of the horse, swinging. The sun rises. Faded warmth washes over you. It’s during these moments of synchrony when you forget who you are, forget your worries and the unsteady nature of your identity, and you get to focus solely on connection with another creature, communication so subtle it’s as though you’re reading each other’s minds. 

Halfway through your ride, you stop to give Draco a walking break and catch your breath. Your eyes scan the horizon above the hills, where deep pink and purple and bright, unending orange blend together as the sun makes its way up the sky. You glance towards the barn, where some of the horses watch you ride, having finished their hay, waiting for their turn. You look away, gathering your reins, preparing for another workout. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and you halt your horse, head on a swivel to check around you. There, at the side of the arena, leaned up against the dusty metal railing, Thomas Shelby watches you quietly, his head tilted slightly, eyes tracking Draco’s movement. Your eyes meet, you on the towering stallion, but him taking up just as much presence with his expression alone. Air thins out around you, and you suck in a slow breath, not breaking contact with the stranger on your property. 

Then, as if possessed, your outside leg shifts back, and Draco steps quickly into a canter. Without thought, without planning, you find yourself doing what can only be described as showing off. Extended canter, collected canter. Tempi changes, canter pirouettes. You’re a finely tuned machine, each tiny movement a conversation with the horse, each silent shift eliciting a full response from him. 

By the time you’re done, Draco has sweat dripping down his neck, breathing hard, and lightheadedness swirls around you, making you take in slow breaths to steady yourself. You can feel his eyes on you, pointed, judgemental, and there’s a faint tremble in your hands gripping the reins. Staying on the horse gives you some protection; there’s not much someone can do to you while on horseback, unless he decides to shoot you, in which case, there’s nothing you can do. You trust Draco. He has a habit of pinning his ears and showing his teeth to strangers, snaking his neck towards them, though you’ve tried to train it out of him. Some stallions always have an edge to them.

You walk Draco to the arena gate, reaching out to push it open, but Thomas is already there, pulling it back to allow you out. You nod your head to him, voice once again stuck in your throat, branding you with the poetry of all the words you couldn’t speak. This time, though, your heart doesn’t jolt, your mind doesn’t go blank. He’s on your turf now.

“Beautiful animal.” He nods to Draco curtly as you walk by, as if unimpressed by your show of talent. His words defy him. “Beautiful ride.”

You nod again. Thanking him feels like handing him your power, like bowing your head and allowing him to judge. This is a game of reading silence, and you know how to win it. After a moment of hesitation, you dismount. You bring your horse over to the cross ties and tie him, giving him a treat from your pocket once the bit is out of his mouth. Thomas’ footsteps follow you, but you refuse to look at him, focusing on undoing the girth and pulling the saddle off. In your periphery, he stands, a dark figure surrounded by the grandeur of a sunrise in full force, undeserving of the golden outline it gives him. His hands in his coat pockets, his gaze on Draco, his cap pulled low over his eyes. Again, you catch a glint of metal along the rim. 

“Is he for sale?” He walks up to Draco’s neck, running a hand along the sweaty length of his neck. 

“No.” You turn and carry the saddle to the tack room, hefting it onto a rack and placing the pads on the rail underneath it to dry. You return to find Thomas by the horse’s head. You pause, watching them, hoping to go unnoticed. As usual, the stallion’s ears go back, his nose wrinkles, his neck arches. Thomas nods, continuing to stroke his neck, and says something you don’t understand. Another language, perhaps, one that sounds smooth, lyrical. Draco quiets, his liquid eye softening, though his ears stay pinned. Protective, not aggressive.

“He doesn’t trust you.” You walk over to grab a hose, waiting for Thomas to move so you can rinse the sweat off Draco. 

He doesn’t. “Name a price. I’ll meet it.”

“No.” You step forward, raising the hose, trying to make your intent clear. 

“Horse like him could get you out of a little house like that.” His fingers toy with Draco’s mane, still gentle, still looking into the horse’s eye. “Got no reason not to sell him.”

“He’s not for sale,” you insist, taking another step forward. 

His eyes shift to you, clear, icy blue and unreadable. “You don’t know who I am.”

“No. I don’t.” You point the hose towards him, a clear threat. “Move, please.”

“I’ll take you into town, then. Help you recon—”

You turn on the hose. A deluge of water sprays onto him, square in the chest, and he skitters out of the way, spooking Draco into a prance. You stand there, shocked by what you just did, then, in a spark of bravery you didn’t know you had, decide to commit to the bit. 

“You don’t get to intimidate me into selling my horse. You don’t get to decide that I’m going into town with you. Those are both my choices.” One hand on the still-running hose, the other preparing to kink it, you shift your shoulders to stand square in the soaked face of Thomas. “I don’t care who you are. Someone who doesn’t treat me with basic respect doesn’t deserve my time. Are we clear?”

Your heart pounds in your chest as his furious eyes turn to you. Holding his arms away from his dripping body, the layers of the suit completely wet, his hand slowly reaches up towards his cap. 

You step back, readying your hose, your only weapon. Blood pulses in your temples, all air seems to leave your lungs, and your hand begins to tremble as you wait for him to lunge. 

Instead, he wipes his face with it, then nods. “Really fucking clear.” 

“Good.” You kink the hose and shakily walk to turn it off. Back turned to him, you hold out your hands, watching them shudder with the spike of adrenaline. Then, slowly, you walk back, catching a moment of hilarity as Thomas attempts to squeeze water out of his suit and fails. You don’t quite feel safe enough to smile, but, at least, you feel a little better. 

“We can turn him out,” you say, nodding to Draco. “And I’ll get you a towel.”

“Turn him out,” he repeats, tense brow furrowing. 

“Put him in the arena and let him be a horse for a bit. No expectations.”

“Never heard of that.”

“Apparently you haven’t heard of much,” you snap. 

His eyes flick to you, almost brooding. You’ve never seen light eyes hold so much darkness. “Don’t bother with the towel. I’ll go.”

“Fine.” You turn back to Draco. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Shelby.”

He scoffs, and starts off towards his car, parked in the dusty valley your property sits in. In your mind, a dialectic is born. You feel relieved, glad that you’ll never see him again. And, deep down, you’re disappointed. Maybe this could’ve been something more. Maybe you could’ve won a friend out of it. 

No. Stupid of you to have expected that. You are constantly looking for hope, expecting it to be soft and gentle, when in reality, hope is something with sharp teeth and a bloody, battered body. Hope is something that’s born of isolation. Hope is something man-made, purposeful, something you keep in a jar like a butterfly, and catch more once it dies. 

Hope is a man speaking gently to a fearful, aggressive horse, instead of punishing him. 

You shake your head. Stupid. 

But you can’t help but watch as the car drives off, hoping it will turn back. 

[chitinleg]

got him off-balance!

[solarockk]

Sometimes I can't help myself at all

rip doggy allience you will be missed

Kind of a sequel to this

[chloesimaginationthings]

I'm not sure if this has been asked before (sorry if it has) but who's your favorite animatronic?

Here’s a handful of my top faves! Monty is probably my absolute favourite

Foxy I was obsessed with when I was younger, Ballora I always found to be very creepy/pos, and Helpy is my best friend

[thequibblingking13]

Fearne Calloway, the woman that you are

(Zoom for better quality bc this file is big as fuck)