#Geyser Man

[stardestroyer81]

In the tags of my previous post, I mentioned that the prime reason behind Hydro Man's redesign was so that I could have a portrait drawn of him for the finalized version of Mega Man Ultimate's stage select, and seeing as I haven't shown its updated version since 2020... here are the eight robot masters of the Synth Legion in all their glory! 💙🏳️‍⚧️✨

(Psssst! You can find individual pins of every Synth Legion Number's portrait as well as a full stage select shirt over on my RedBubble store!)

[andi-o-geyser]

That was a VISCERAL physical reaction. go to horny jail

[fujii-draws]

Took me like 3 days to learn teehee :3

[courseyoulovemeyoudontknowme]

Wreck-It Ralph (2012, Rich Moore)

11/06/2024

[magicalgirlmindcrank]

Well that's new

Quick warm up

[figs-oliomedley]

wait no what happened to Sweet-Bro-and-Hella-Jeff-face guy

:y

[knife-red]

if u like mitski whats the mitski song that just Gets You im talking gut punch type tapping into what youre feeling

[ayrennaranaaldmeri]

so that anniversary style pages rng huh

[the-problemo]

people who remove yogurt from their individual containers and put it in a bowl fascinate me

In a nicely and slightly agressive way

[yameoto]

any more thoughts on puppy art.. please. only if u want to though haha !! (please?)

ohh u guys love your darling little lapdog huh?

LAPDOG ART DONALDSON! fem!reader

▸ a drooler. nosing his head between your legs n he's already salivating. he's so cute like that. face smushed between your thighs, panting as spit pools in his mouth, nose twitching like a cute little bunny at the scent of your arousal. taking the trim of your panties between his teeth, dragging it down inch by inch. quivering because he just wants to rip them off but the last time he did that he tore your nice lacy lingerie and u didnt touch him for a week. when he eats you out he laps at your cunt like an eager puppy. comes away absolutely glistening. dripping, even. your juices n his saliva smearing his cheeks, his nose, dribbling down his chin.

▸ bigggg on humping. obviously. when you're too busy to give him attention he'll just shuffle over onto your lap and just start rubbing up against you. he's ridden out the best orgasms that way; creaming in his already-sodden boxers as slick gets all over ur thigh. he likes to do it when you're working or when you're on a call (you always punish him best that way). oftentimes you'll wake up at night to slick sheets—finding him grindin up against you, moaning and whimpering. a sleepy, boneless mess on your knee. he'll already have gotten himself off thrice before he tries to wakes you, just to be safe (you might take it away from him, after all). ▸ teething.... grown ass man teething... gnawing on your shoulder to stop himself from crying out when you let him fuck you.. nibbling your bottom lip red n raw when you kiss.. slobbering all over your mouth. during sex if you tease him he'll start to chew anxiously at the end of ur bra strap, the hem of your shorts, your panties if you keep him waiting too long. sometimes randomly takes your hand by the wrist and takes a fake chomp out of it (affectionate).

▸ not beyond jus being your lil stress relief toy. coming back home and he's been so good for you. he won his match. he's cooked dinner. but you don't have time for any of that. "oh, baby, don't give me that look. cock out, now." and he makes a little mewling noise and immediately his shorts are a crumpled puddle on the floor—raging boner popping out, all swollen n red n leaking bc hes been waiting for you for hours. ▸ sighing, telling him to sit and so he does. legs spreading wide on the couch, blinking up at u in earnest neediness. and when you sink onto his cock he makes this insane, visceral whining noise—back arcing off the seat. ▸ cockwarmer? more like cuntwarmer. you tell him don't move and don't cum. an impossible ask. he's pawing at your back, whimpering when your only response is to lean back heavier, sinking your full weight down on his poor, poor cock. n it feels soso good but he only lasts two minutes on a good day! let alone when you're switching the tv on and settling back into him like he's part of the couch. occasionally your hips jump, walls pulsing tight, choking his sensitive dick. you're grinding down into his lap and he's twitching inside of u and hot tears are prickling his eyes—fingers digging into your thighs, trembling.

▸ time ticking on.. the coil of heat in his gut winding tighter n tighter.. art's cheeks are flushed and hes wetting the back of your shirt with his silent tears. he persists, though, because he's good. he's gonna be a good boy for you. and it works! for a time, when you seem like you've almost forgotten your pussy is strangling his cock and you're only rolling your hips occasionally, sending warm thrums of pleasure through him. lulling him into a false sense of security.

▸ until all of a sudden you decide to be mean and for whatever reason you lift your hips before slamming them back down again, and his sharp gasp and slurred mewls perfectly cue the geyser that erupts from his slit.

▸ not even letting him cum inside you.. sliding off his spurting cock thats blowing cum like a volcano. hot, sticky strings arcing in the air and splattering all over the carpet, the couch cushions. his eyes glazing over, all glassy n sparkly as he crumples back in the couch, blubbering tearful apologies as his cock leaks like a faucet, staining the poor, new pillows.

▸ adores aftercare. or just your comfort in general. please rest your hand against his cheek and let him sigh and melt and nuzzle into the palm of your hand like you're taking the weight of the world off his shoulders. tug gently on his hair. scratch his scalp. let him curl up on your lap and pat him and coo sweet nothings in his ear. simple things, like "sweet baby, did so good today." or "tired puppy. took mommy so well."

▸ "fuck— m'sorry. m'sorry, m'sorry—" "hey, shh, darling. aw, don't cry. mommy's got you. how bout you curl up on momma's lap, kay?" "..mkay."

[thebubblesareevil]

I can’t find my post!!

I made a post awhile ago about a Percy Jackson x Danny phantom xover but I never read the books….

I’m about to finish blood of Olympus and now I have a starting line!!!

Same premise, Danny goes to camp half-blood (post boo) and no one can figure out whos kid he is and Percy is being held back by Annabeth before he charges to Olympus and chews out the gods for not claiming this whole ass 17 yr old.

Not only that but the kid refuses to believe he has a godly parent.

Nico keeps getting weird vibes from this guy, like he’s dead but not????

Meanwhile Danny is avoiding Rachel Dare like the plague and is getting increasingly annoyed by these assholes saying his parents lied to him.

Meanwhile clockwork is waiting for the perfect moment to strike. (He’s Danny’s ghost dad ever since his amulet fused with Danny’s core)

One night at dinner when EVERYONE decided to show up a glowing watch shines above Danny’s head.

Percy looks like he’s about to blow a geyser while Annabeth and Chiron are going through all their knowledge about the gods to figure out who tf it is.

because THAT wasn’t possible.

Meanwhile there’s no cabin for any time gods yet so he’s stuck in the Hermes cabin for a bit.

The next day after a rousing game of capture the flag that Danny spent trying to get ahold of the old stopwatch.

As everyone returns to camp there’s a giant commotion….caused by the giant cabin looming over the Zeus cabin with the Symbol of a watch at the top, and a glowing blue man reading a book.

Danny yells “Get down here you asshole!”

CW appears in front of Danny

“Please tell me I’m wrong” Danny groans

“About~~~” CW Grins looking towards Percy and Annabeth

“Well if it isn’t my favorite grandchildren! Thanks again for disposing of that old remnant, for some reason that old shell keeps reforming”

Chaos ensues

Clockwork (formerly chronos) offers Danny some popcorn.

(They thought he was a Hephaestus kid but it turns out he’s just a mad scientist)

[stardestroyer81]

This past Saturday marked the five year anniversary of Mega Man Ultimate's conception, and my good friends got to see a slides presentation of my sizeable archive of five years worth of concept art and early sprites dating as far back as late 2017!

One such early sprite was the very first stage select portrait for Zap Man, in which I had drawn him in a front-facing angle rather a 3/4ths angle. My sister @stephysalcido suggested I ought to remaster Zap Man's original stage select portrait, and what I ended up with not only exceeded my expectations but looks wicked cool too! 💙✨

[andi-o-geyser]

Pondering her orb

[machinavocis]

^^^ as the current tenant of a Cursed House myself, there has been more than one situation over the years in which my hazy memory of A Similar Thing Happening to Someone on Tumblr was a very helpful pointer in what turned out to be the right direction.

(shoutout 2 the Cursed Rental House subgenre in particular for teaching me that yeah no your landlord might for real be trying to gaslight you into thinking a basement slowly filling with sewage water is normal & fine actually. )

I wonder if my plumber silently judges me for my terrible pipes

[courseyoulovemeyoudontknowme]

Wreck-It Ralph (2012, Rich Moore)

09/10/2024

[dvchvnde]

EXCERPT: JOHN PRICE, WINTER SOLDIER AU.

You're still getting used to the sight of him—bare faced in patches: the beard shorn off into a mere shadow of what it was before; a choice he'd made for himself after scrubbing down in a long shower, refusing any help or medical aid—and he doesn't make it any easier for you in these brief, uncomfortable stages of acclimation you suffer through.

Hands lashing out into dead air. Fingers catching, unyielding and firm, on your skin. Nails—split and jagged; regrown in patches after being ripped off over and over again (for hree years, is the mocking whisper snaking along the nausea when you look at the pinked-tinged beds)—burrowing into your flesh. Anchoring you in place as he bends down, moulds his frame around you. Malleable shadow eating you whole.

Indomitable.

John Price was always an intimidating man.

Towering. Broad. Gruff. Surly. Mean old man was often thrown around amongst the new recruits, ones too scared to voice what they really thought:

Miserable fucking bastard.

His weight thrown around like an extension of himself—all raw, barely contained anger trembling out through the cracks. Lashing thick, brutal lines across his forehead. In the sharp, downward tug of his mouth tucked behind a bed of brunt umbre hair.

He was difficult to deal with on a good day, even when he'd offer that mocking smile of his. A parody of geniality—lips split upwards like a crocodiles maw.

(come, come, put your hand inside this beasts jaws; he won't bite—)

As fucking if.

You've only known him in pieces. Patches. Barely enough to make a whole picture, but you could still fill in the empty spaces with that grizzled anger of his that seemed to roll off of him in waves.

(no wonder he burns so hot—it's all that fury.)

Mostly, he'd come to dress you down in front of everyone watching. Snapping at the sight of your desk—organised chaos a true oxymoron (and for the most part, that seemed to be what he thought of you: a moron)—and how you handled files, and how you waltzed around like you owned the place—

and do you, sweetheart? do you own this place, mm? is that why you never listen to a goddamn thing i tell you?

All-in-all: a miserable fucking man.

And one made of sharp, brutal contradictions. Paradoxes layered over each other. Sealed with fury—of the righteous, pragmatic kind—and reinforced with an utilitarian core. Forlorn hope in the distinct shape of a man, one always readying himself for a pyrrhic victory (but a victory, nevertheless).

Easy, in hindsight, to deal with when you knew how to navigate the frothing gyre of anger and juxtapositions that made up the man who brute force, physicality, to get what he wanted.

By sharp contrast, the version of him who stands before is more enigmatic than the mangled mess of savagery and labyrinthine defenses. Almost unknowable. Unfathomable.

Even more so when he lifts his hand—scarred up, still blistered and bruised from fighting his way through fire and kin to get to you—and presses those mangled knuckles to the swell of your cheek, as tender as a man like him could ever allow himself to be, and runs a soft, shallow line down the side of your face. Eyes—still that same, dizzying blue—darken into liquid sapphire as he stares at you. Inexplicably soft. Lids crested. Half-mast in pleasure as if staring at your face was relaxing. Comforting.

Something swirls in those deep, endless lagoons. Some implacable emotion—all at once too much; too heavy—frissoning over his feature. A paroxysm. You can't catch it. Can't define it.

It's unquantifiable. Unknowable. And yet—

You know, instantly, that John Price would never look at you with something this archaic, this intense, brimming up like geysers in the endless spill of blue that can't seem to look away from you.

This man is not John Price.

But when he pulls you into a kiss—one softer and sweeter than you'd ever imagined the infamous captain could ever be capable of—you let him.

In fact, you kiss back.

And you'd really rather not think about what that says about you.