#itz good.

[femmefaggot]

mix carnation packet w milk n instant coffee to get Thick Chocolate Energy

[crumpetsancheese]

THUNDER CREEK FROM TADPOLE TREBEL, BABY!! CIRCUMVENTING MY USUAL ANXIETY JUST SO I CAN TELL AS MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE TO LISTEN TO IT!! PLEAIS!!

reblog w the song lyrics in your head NOW. either stuck in yr head or what yr listening to

[scourge-sympathiser]

SCOURGE SUNDAY 054/???

sea urchin

[pastadoughie]

standin for every overly infantilising ask i recieve

[spitinsideme]

period sex so good it got her flabbergasted and bewildered whilst the other is filled with whimsical joy

[remapped-soul]

would've, could've, should've

It's late enough that no one cares where Pecco is going, why he's racing through the padock, almost panting as he tries to stay close to the walls where the shadows lurk. He wouldn't know what to answer anyway.

He has a sprint to win the next day, a race on Sunday. A championship to focus on. He's made too many mistakes this year, he can't afford to lose focus now. And yet, here he is, almost running as if he's chased by hounds, hands curled into fists in his pockets. He switched the Ducati red jacket for a nonedescript one, a hat to cover his eyes. He doesn't think he's doing anything wrong, he just wants to talk. A conversation has never hurt anybody, and they'll be teammates next year. It's his duty to pave the way, to make sure he'll get a third championship, and a fourth. He's not Vale, but he still wants to be great.

He spots the motorhome as he rounds the corner, getting closer, closer, heart jumping in his chest with every step. Up the stairs, stomach tight. He knocks, and prays, prays no one answers. He just wants to talk. Pecco shouldn't be here. He knows this, and yet--

The door opens with a click, and Marc blinks at him, hair wet, dripping in his eyes.

"Pecco?" Marc asks, squinting. "Is everything alright?"

Pecco nods, frozen in place. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, trying to think of something to say, but words elude him. He shouldn't be here, but he has a duty to fulfill. He's seen the way Marc rides when the bike listens to him, a hound chasing its pray. If Pecco thinks too long about it, he'll get scared. He can't. He wants next year to be good, for him, for both of them. Sweat drips down the side of his face in the humid Indonesian night.

Marc leans against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. Pecco follows the movement with his eyes. Marc doesn't take his eyes off of Pecco. "Can I help you?"

Pecco shouldn't be there. "Can I come in?"

Marc raises an eyebrow as if he's waiting for a continuatio, but when he gets nothing, he steps aside. Pecco follows. The door closes behind him. Pecco is inside. He shouldn't he here. He doesn't want to be here. His brain doesn't register the space. Couch, armchairs, a towel on the backside of a chair. Marc behind him, breath like thunder in Pecco's ears. Pecco must say something. He wants to leave.

He turns. "I wanted to thank you."

Marc smiles, and it strangely resembles a cat. "Did you now?"

Pecco nods, stomach tight. "For helping me." Marc steps closer. "During practice," Pecco continues. "I didn't realise I was low on fuel." It's a lie.

Marc stops in front of him, too close. Too far away. "Things can get confusing on track." They both know it's a lie. "Speed gets to your head." They both know it's true. Pecco feels its song in his veins still.

"Certo," Pecco says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. The movement cuts the distance between them, and Pecco finds himself looking down at Marc. Yet, he's never felt smaller. "You didn't have to do that."

Marc raises one shoulder in half a shrug. "We're going to be teammates next year." He looks up at Pecco, takes another step. "We're going to be riding the best bikes on track." He takes another step, fully in Pecco's personal space now. With all the space around him, Pecco doesn't move, can't move. Marc leans in and drops his voice. "We'll be the fastest on track."

Pecco should leave. "It will be interesting, especially with Jorge at Aprilia. He might win this year--"

"You should believe more in yourself, Pecco." Marc's lips almost touch his ear, his cheek almost against Pecco's cheek. Hands hover over his hips. So close. So far away. Marc smells like coconut. Pecco has never liked coconut.

Pecco swallows. "I am. I won two years in a row. I'm a world champion." And he'll get the third one.

"You'll get the third one as well," Marc laughs. "Jorge loses control too easily." His breath is the only thing that touches Pecco's skin, sending shivers down his spine.

"The fourth one will be more difficult." Pecco closes his eyes. Marc keeps a calculated distance from himodand Pecco is pretty sure Marc is standing on his toes to reach his ear, but he can't move. His nostrils flare with the smell of coconut, almost choking him. He never understood people who liked food-scened skin products.

Marc turns his head. "You'll be riding against me." His lips graze Pecco's ear, making him sway in place. Marc's fingers close over Pecco's hipbones, pressing through his shirt, finally, finally. Pecco shouldn't be here. Doesn't want to be here. He--

"We need to behave, or Ducati won't have any champion next year."

Pecco wants to devour him, coconut smell and all.

Marc smothers his laugh against Pecco's neck. It takes everything in Pecco to stand tall, to not melt against Marc, to keep the distance.

When he speaks, his voice is not his own. "Will you?"

Marc stops laughing, kisses lower. "Mm. What will you give me to play nice?"

Everything. Pecco doesn't say that. "I might let you win."

Marc bites his neck lightly. "What would Dall'Igna say? His golden boy giving up his win for me."

"I have only two. You got eight."

"You brought glory back to Ducati."

"And you're one championship short."

They don't speak his name, but it's like someone dumped cold water over their heads. Marc steps back, removing himself from Pecco. The look in his eyes is weirdly lucid for how out of his mind Pecco feels.

"We should both get some sleep. It will be a long day tomorrow."

Pecco knows a dismissal when he sees one, so he agrees. He shouldn't have said that, and yet Marc got to him. He shouldn't even be here, and yet he is. He doesn't want to leave. "Thank you, again." He wants Marc to kiss him.

Marc leads him to the door, the same unreadable smile on his face. Pecco feels stripped bare, with nothing left to hide. Marc smiles at him. Two seconds ago, those lips were on Pecco's neck.

Marc smiles as if he knows what Pecco's thinking about. "Tell Vale I said hello," he says and closes the door in Pecco's face.

Pecco thinks he understands Vale a little bit more. You either love or hate Marc, there's no in between.

[krabkrab-wontshutup]

“I know I’ve got a lot of hill to climb, but on this starry night, I’m feeling New.”

:0! an O!Scott!! He’s my blorbo of all time (one might call him a boat) look at him!!! starry fella!!! I did an art of him a while ago that i’ll put under here, spoiler alert its not good!

i am like actually appalled at how good this drawing looks though??? like???? HELLOO???? who ripped this style out of me and can you do it again

[spookythesillyfella]

HAPPY DAY TO MY SUPER PAWESOME COOL SICK GREAT SIBLING @jumjum-crafts WAHAHAHAHA

să-ți ofere Domnul tot ce-ți dorești în această minunată zi X3 ești un înger și toți te iubim foarte mult <33

[pastelhooman]

Kasane Teto and her new getup 🎶🎶

[creativesparkz]

Closeface, we kinda need Closeface

[plushpyromoved]

wip scribble page in between working on actual art

[coffinkissing17]

ok here is a bettter drawing stillbad but we ball

[scourge-sympathiser]

SCOURGE SUNDAY 019/???

rose gold

[plushpyro]

variouz spyz for @emesiisdiazepam ^u^!!!!

[itsonly-eli]

stares in fish

(the text on the top left says "I wanted to do callamari but my laziness said NO")

[born2b-beheaded]

I'm joining the war on Whipstickagostop.. on the side of Whipstickagostop