#i just wanted to fill the space

[tee-dohrnii]

Gale doodles (?) / practice pt. 6

Feat. Puppy dog eyes Dekarios

[spacizia]

he’s just a swinging space age bachelor man!!!!

[hinamie]

realizing how much i like drawing him a million years too late :<

[sodatelle]

forbidden jay (he’s lost)

[blujayonthewing]

This year's big web! This one marks five years of big web!!!

[sunnymainecoon]

I don't think I ever published these so ig.....

There's a last one but err warning for gore and blood(mostly just ripping an arm off)

[crystalpallette]

frye inspires this sort of manic "i can do whatever i want" kinda will in people and god. I sure did do whatever I wanted here

[degenerateshinji]

do you ever think about. cause listen what if,

[magician-under-the-m00nlight]

aptx!kaito au in which Shinichi doesn't know aptx exists and feels insane that his leading theory is "a six year old is the mastermind behind Kaitou Kid"

[coolnonsenseworld]

A little promo with my little obsession on the side...........

Reminder all items are shipped from Poland - for details on shipping times check out FAQ or send me a private message!

 mmezzy.bigcartel.com

[hedgerlogs]

👓

[bee-can-art]

Waterparks is just three lads in a trench coat

• Click for better quality (16/08/2024)

(Shoulder stack sticker here!!!)

[tealdoodles]

Happy Pocky Day. Completely inspired by @emelinstriker picture here.

Also also inspired by this post that pops up every once in a while in my head. CHOMP!

Don’t worry Reader plays a few games of pocky with the Champion(s) macaque really wanted to play the game properly and got a new stick. And reader has a difficult time saying no to him. How can you? Look it him being all adorable!

And now to go research the history of Pocky Day right before I go to bed.

[batsplat]

pecco rant please please

*spins wheel on possible topics* absurdly underrated but in a dumb way. you'd think you can stumble your way into two premier class titles. I don't care he's on the best bike - let's be honest, how often this century have the title winners not been on the best bike? 2004 and to a lesser extent 2005 you can say clearly weaker bike, 2007 late 2010s 2021 there's a clear enough disparity with anyone else riding the bike that you can say clearly the rider is making the difference/it's an unrideable wreck one guy is making respectable, then there's a few seasons where it's at least very close whose machinery is best or they're fighting with people on equal equipment, which pecco has done! but generally speaking, good/promising riders end up on good bikes and then they win. that's how the game works!

the thing about 2022 is that it had such a massive mid-season swing that overhauling a ninety something point margin cannot come down to any single factor. is it fair to say fabio lost that title? on balance, it's a bit harsh - yes, there were a few too many errors post-sachsenring, yes, some were driven by desperation, but also you can't really expect anyone to ride a flawless season. but pecco did win that title as much as yamaha lost it. I don't care if you're riding a literal rocketship with two wheels, you can't win four races in a row if you're not extremely good at what you do! if we're saying that title was worth less because the yamaha turned to shit in the second half of the season, then let's keep going. let's put an asterisk next to 2013 because jorge and dani both got injured (let's not even get into the 'if marc hadn't been injured' asterisks because that's where you get into truly silly territory). is 2006 not a legit title because of all the bad luck valentino faced that year? let's say all titles between 2007 to 2015 were worth less because at any one time only 4-6 bikes had a realistic chance of winning races. throw out any title before 2009 because they were constantly fucking about with the tyres and there wasn't a level playing field. if you're motivated enough, you can play this game with basically anything, but it's dumb and pointless because that's not how sports works! you can only win against whoever you're facing. it has always been thus and it will always be thus

it's narratively fun and juicy that pecco has these insecurities himself - but within the context of everyone else doing discourse over it, the whole thing is massively overblown! linked to some of the worst sports discourse about how much people love to disparage late bloomers, because they need every single successful athlete to fit the same mould of the ultra-talented wunderkind, apparently. it's more interesting when it's not always the most 'talented' (whatever tf that means), naturally gifted, *fast the second he touches a bike* bloke who wins. sometimes they have to work hard for it, sometimes they have to improve themselves year on year and be smart about how they do it, sometimes they have to be in the right place and right time, sometimes they have to be very lucky. sports is all about competition, and competition is all about contrast. it's a contrast that can be generated in a whole lot of ways, and in fairness to motogp they have come up with a bunch of interesting narratively tense contests that don't rely on a massive fundamental 'talent' differential - but at the end of the day, that's one of the best ones you can have! the more ways you can have to win in any given sport, the better, both in the literal sense of how you go about the actual process of winning and how you even become a winner. none of this means that pecco isn't very very good, it means he got there in a different way than every other multiple champ this century has. it fundamentally flattens the sport if you want every top-level competitor to be an alien-level talent... one of the best things about this current era is that it has given us something new and exciting in that regard, where you well and truly believe some very different blokes might have what it takes to eventually be champion

anyway, pecco is absurdly adept at digging himself into holes and absurdly adept at digging himself out of them. he's one of the worst frontrunners imaginable in every sense, biologically incapable of dominating without at least a perpetual hint of jeopardy, both in the context of a race and a season. but when his back is against the wall, somehow he keeps finding performances you never imagined he was capable of. his mixed up and slightly odd skillset, his strengths and weaknesses, how he's better and worse than he has any right to be... all of it lends itself to perpetual momentum shifts and thrilling seasons - because you never quite know what you're going to get. love him or hate him, he's a gift to the overall competitive landscape! god knows the racing hasn't been much to write home about these last few years (though, yes, we did have a good little run this season), but somehow he's managed to get himself involved in two out of the six title deciders this century back-to-back. is that not the dream for the viewer, to have a bloke at the top of the sport with a little self-combust chip in his head every time he builds too much of an advantage? build a hundred of those guys! throw a marc marquez at him and see what he does! I can't wait to see what he'll come up with next

[dadforker]

Now that I got this blog I'm thinkin about all the stuff someone with a tumblr would write about their dad.

The way he's kinda distant, but nice. Maybe you'd bond with him over small things like old movies you watched together, the type he used to watch when he was young. But he's older now, greyed- and so worn, still warm though and rough with a heartbreak smile in his truck, sturdy enough to bear the brunt of burden.

Would there be a desperation to keep you around? Like an ex boyfriend who keeps calling, asking if "Hey, remember that time we..." and the memories flood by the time you were away, but you're not so young anymore yourself, busied with things like a real life and real problems, not fucking your dad problems or worrying about if the old man on the subway next to you might give you a chance problems.

In rumbling roads and rasped out words, too awkward for the either of you in some push of sense, it's easy to see how lonesome he is without you, the smell of him fills the house- smoking indoors again when he said he wouldn't, yet there's not an empty bottle of beer astray- some kind of perverted consideration, you aren't any girlfriend to impress.

It's how in taking care of someone like this, the roles have reversed. Hands lightly clutch his shoulders in a stumble towards his room to follow hours later- TV still running its mouth distantly before you close the door, just stilled with the sounds of his breathing, your steps and the creak of the bed when you lay him down there to rest on his side.

He's handsome. Thick scruffy beard, rugged face, even when so tired and worn it looks kissable- your dad, shirt rolled up exposing messied fur across the valley of his stomach...you could imagine how it'd feel to run fingers through it, up across his chest in gentle groping to feel all the man of him and what made you.

It might end there, and you could sleep on the couch with some old movie playing in a mock of time lost, but you'd much rather prefer a sight between his legs, or rather the obstruction of it.

A rough calloused hand tousling your hair with insistent pushes down his thickness, untoward thickets of manly smell led by the trail downwards, and any shape of a vague obscurity would be drawn about in peeks of your memory of the barest hint of skin and of the wag he'd give in a shake of his fist, you'd lick your lips at ebbs of another kind of finish, reminders of how you'd ask questions about it and he'd just tell it like it is, all something inches of him, who his first was and just how into it he is when a girl does this and that.

"Hey buddy." He'd mumble all groggy, hand on the wall by the hallway as he shuffles in towards the kitchen. The hand in your pants is stilled, but you're out of view enough to try and remain calm and sensible- for any person jerking off about their dad. Any thoughts are absent clouds, a build up of heavy rain. He'd stand by the counter as if lost though, and you'd all but come up at the chance to guide him back- but he'd turn and give you this look.

One that tells you he's seeing you in the scenery of a thrown on blanket and couch cushions pushed back to make space, all in the dim light of what something AM thought whooshing in his head that has him taking that first step forward, then sitting on the couch next with that dip that has you shoulder to shoulder, a contagious heat in a world where blankets are suddenly too warm. Television so visible, in fact it's hard to keep your eyes off it. You don't know what you'd see if you turn, what kind of facsimile of expression to convince yourself he sees something in you the way you see something in him.

"It's late," and it is. "I should head back to bed," he'd say.

His arm slings across your shoulder though in a hug. He's still kinda sweaty, and in any case, his heavy breath and the silence only makes what part of depravity that's taken root in your mind begin to stir again. Just a little bit longer.

"Love you."

He pats your back with the same hand, trailing it down your back from your arm, the kind of gentleness a stranger to you. Not just friendly, but lingering and you're too scared to look at what his eyes are saying. That at his core he's just as tender as the waft of beer still on him, because it's only temporary.

"Good night, son."

[flowerj3lly]

sea otter fambly