#but that probably would not be worth it. it'd be expensive to make and i imagine that the market for it would be small (me and 2 others)

[mechanical-artery]

its MY birthday and and I get to make everyone look at this old guy

[clockworksheep2]

...... i literally have a VR headset. i can make this in the art program on it. i do not need to agonize over trying to make a 3D object in 2D space.

[wonryllis]

TEMPTING THEM DURING NO NUT NOVEMBER.

─────𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖳𝖧𝖤𝖸 𝖢𝖠𝖵𝖤 𝖨𝖭. 汚い ❛ 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, "𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍" ❜

featuring. enhypen hyung line with fem!r wordcount. 1250 ( around 300 each ) check out the catalogue?

warnings. ⚠︎PG18! public teasing, groping, rough sex, dirty talk, degradation, dry humping, car sex, riding, handjob, shower sex, choking, clit rubbing, p in v obviously.

𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚

heeseung knew he fucked up the moment he agreed to take on the challenge. he knew it so so well, yet he decided he could do it and he could pull through the entire month if tried just hard enough. that he could keep his dick in his pants and not in you.

and it was hard. it is hard. his fucking cock twitching underneath his boxers as you discreetly palm him over his suit pants. right in the middle of a dinner with all his friends sitting around the table. unaware of your indecent touches and the looks you throw at your boyfriend.

batting your lashes at him while biting your lips, grabbing his thigh and then moving your hand up to squeeze his cock. it is absolute torture till it lasts. till his resolve breaks and he immediately drags you along to the nearest bathroom. his friends looking at the scene knowing he's done for— just a week into november.

“shit you just had to make me lose didn't you?” heeseung slaps his hand over your mouth, muffling your loud moans as he drills his cock into you. fast and rough; holding your thigh around his waist in a grip so tight it'd probably leave purple bruises.

he tugs you closer on the counter each time you move back from the force of his thrusts, skin slapping into red, painfully pleasurable marks,“couldn’t keep your hands off my cock for once,” he grunts, brows furrowing as you clench around him every two seconds.

“if you keep doing that baby, i might just knock you up with how much i cum,” he moves his hand from your mouth, his lips immediately find yours in a messy lock, nibbling on your lower lip in supressed groans and pants, his balls tightening up when he feels yours walls clamping onto him hard.

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗝𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗚

if muscles could tear off easily. jay would be in shreds right now. the sheer amount of restraint it is taking him, each part of him painfully tense— beyond he ever felt in his entire life. absolute hell he is going through watching you prance around in just a croptop and freaking bikini bottoms.

his eyes almost popping out of the sockets with drooling desire and want for you as he follows along the way you bend over or reach up for absurd and insane reasons. purposely to tease him of course.

he is aware of what you are trying to do. he really is. but he still just can not seem to look away for the sake of his cock and the expensive dinner on line for losing. gaze continuing to follow you as you settle into his lap, arms draping over his shoulders and your ass resting right on top of his now hard cock. oh he's about to lose.

“had this dream last night and— fuck princess you couldn't keep your hands off me and— oh god it was so hot,” jay rambles, his hands gripping your waist guiding you as you grind your drenched folds across his hard cock. back and forth, back and forth. your wet bikini bottoms sliding off to the side each time you reach up to his tip. warm slick smearing over his twitching cock pulled out of his sweatpants just enough.

his soft gasps and grunts filling the room,”gonna lose the no nut but it's worth it,” his eyes stay fixated on your face, watching the way it twists with pleasure and how your lips form an o when you let a moan amidst the constant mewls.

only two days left, but jay just can't resist it anymore. feeling your thighs shake against his and your eyes roll back when he nudges just the tip inside.

𝗦𝗜𝗠 𝗝𝗔𝗘𝗬𝗨𝗡

jake's knuckles turn borderline white against the steering wheel. grip so tight he might as well rip it off the console. he tries so hard to focus on the road, to keep his eyes and his mind on the lane. but god you make it impossible with your hand caressing his thigh. his gaze drifting down each time your pinky rubs against his balls. and mind drifting off to danger zone of no nut november.

a sharp intake of breath and a silent curse falling off his lips when your fingers trail over his bulge in a feather light touch.

calm down, calm down, calm down. jake chants repeatedly— don't get hard, don't get hard, changing the words when he inevitably feels himself throbbing and growing stiffer by the second— fucking don't get hard damn it, all futile for his cock practically springs against the fabric of his cotton pants after you brush over his tip. should have worn the goddamn boxers.

“oh yeah— oh fuck yeah— your pretty pussy feels so good baby,” jake groans against your parted mouth, the sounds leaving you, the way you bounce on him, the sweat trickling down between your breasts; oh he doesn't care it's only been four days since he decided to participate in no nut november.

“how did i even think i could live a month without you cumming on my cock,” his hands squeezing your ass, guiding your movements as the car flaps with your lewd squelches in the backseat. the windows fogged up and filled with your moans and jake’s dirty mouth running rampant.

noticing your face scrunching up in pleasure, he immediately moves his hand over to rub your nub in quick circles,”god yes you're gonna cum for me?” his feet planting firm onto the floorboard before he starts pounding up,”me too baby, gonna fill you up so well.”

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗡

the cold shower did nothing to help his raging mind. and his raging cock. images of you begging for his cock flashing before his eyes on repeat. you were such a vixen when it came down to sex. knowing exactly how to tempt him in a way he would not be able to be resist.

it's only been ten days. sunghoon reminds himself, a hand rubbing down his face as he tries taking in deep breaths. coming home to you waiting for him right by the front door with fucking bedroom eyes was not something he was ready for. and especially not for the way you tried to persuade him to give up the challenge. pulling him closer by his sweatpants and throwing out the most sensual begs he'd ever heard from you.

it took every cell in him to deny you, rushing into the shower to avoid you before you could notice his boner. he did not lock the door though—

“fuck doll, keep doing that and i’ll cum so hard,” sunghoon throws his head back, water running down his chest and over your pretty little hands jerking his hard cock in sloppy strokes. his hips buck involuntarily, furious and wild despite all the warnings flashing red in his subconscious.

“shit shit shit— fuck wait—” as the tight coil in his stomach threatens to bust, he instantly pulls away. albeit only to push you against the glass wall, haul up your left leg, and shove his cock inside in a brutal thrust. his forehead resting against yours as he fucks rough. rough and mad.

his other hand reaching up to grip your throat in a light choke,”you were so desperate to be fucked, you just had to ruin my challenge didn't you?” thumb pressing onto your windpipe just enough while he stares into your glazed eyes,”so desperate for my cum,”

taglist . . open ! @s00buwu @lilyuwon @pockyyasii @nctislifue @shawnyle @enhastolemyheart @aaa-sia @criminalyun @oddracha @satan-223 @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @jayjw16enxp @laylasbunbunny @riribelle @ancnymcnzjy

[ay0nha]

The Awful Daring of a Moment's Surrender | Dr. Frank Langdon

SUMMARY: Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the rain, or the way your guard had been ground down over weeks of double shifts and subtle stares--but you felt solt. Unarmored. And Frank noticed. Of course, he did, but he let you have

Creative Event: A Doctor A Day 18, Prompt: "I was hoping it'd be you." Color: Black

PAIRING: Dr. Frank Langdon x f!reader (nurse)

WORD COUNT: 6.3K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled 'enemies' to lovers, the one-bed trope, a pervy patient, nurse harassment, cheesy conversations and tropes, inner turmoil, mentions of divorce and kids, rehab, MOVIE MAGIC PLOT AND PACING lol, fluff, angst, etc.

A/N: This was so much fun to be a part of! I word vomited, but oh well. Thank you for creating this @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs!

Frank’s eyes found you again. They always did—like muscle memory, like a bad habit he would never break.

He’d been trying to distract himself all day, trying not to think about the subtle shifts in gravity around you. Rewriting notes, rechecking vitals that didn’t need checking, drowning in inboxes and labs like they could offer sanctuary from a single truth: things between you weren’t the same.

It was in the way you smiled at everyone but him. The way you didn’t joke anymore, the way you walked right past him like the space between you wasn’t even worth acknowledging.

Frank didn’t notice at first because you weren’t cruel with it, just distant. Professional. Fine. Yet, that was what cut. 

Frank had been through enough to know when something was wrong. Rehab taught him to hear quiet rejection, to notice when people flinched, or made space, but it hadn’t prepared him for this; for being back, being so-called better, and still losing something he hadn’t even realized mattered so much.

You—The person who used to crack jokes entirely at his expense. The one who once split stale vending machine chips with him during back-to-back codes. The one who used to call him Frank, like it meant something.

Now it was just Langdon, again. You’d pressed a reset, and he had no idea why.

It made him restless, fidgeting between cases and rushing through notes just to keep moving. Even now, leaning over the desktop was just another performance; posture rehearsed, hand perched on the mouse, eyes blank on the screen, but he wasn’t reading. He was watching you.

Not with malice, not even with interest, but with a persistence that had come to a point. The nurses whispered, the med students’ eyes bouncing between the two of you when you shared a case, and even the patients read between the lines to find something you were purposely ignorant of. 

You posed yourself well, ignoring it. You moved through the ED with the kind of grace only long shifts could carve out: quick, tired, and efficient.

You’d been on your feet for too long, and it showed. Blood pressure cuffs slung around your neck, bruises bloomed under your eyes, and every that started neat was now purely functional. Still, you managed to find warmth for everyone: patients, techs, and that fourth-year who forgot how to use the glucometer. 

Everyone but Frank. That’s what made it personal.

Frank shook his head, trying to refocus. “God–!”

“Now’s not the time to find God, Langdon.” Dana hummed sarcastically, pushing a clipboard into his chest. “...nor is it the time to makin’ eyes—leave the girl alone.”

“I’m not—” He’d almost fallen for the trap. It took effort to pull his eyes away from you to come up with something clever. “You wear that cross around your neck, but that doesn't make you a saint.”

“You’re warming up.” She was half-impressed with his counter. “If I still had a heart, I’d find this all moving.”

“There’s nothing to find.” He scoffed, flipping through the chart—chest pains, mild tachycardia, probably anxiety. “Give this to Whitaker, I have to…”

Dana watched his thoughts trail off his tongue. Frank didn’t look at his surroundings, moving swiftly with instinct, and chasing after you. 

You were in Room 28, helping an elderly woman with a bedpan situation that was rapidly becoming a story. You were tired—so tired. The fluorescent lights felt like a second skin, and your scrubs smelled like antiseptic and cafeteria curry. 

That was when he walked in.

“Need a hand?” Frank leaned in the doorway,  stethoscope slung loose around his neck like a badge of charm.

You didn’t turn; there was no need. “Not unless you want to glove up.”

“Tempting.” His hands remained secure in his pockets.

You exhaled, kept your focus on the patient, and murmured, “I’m almost done here.”

The woman in the bed chuckled. “He’s handsome. Is he yours?”

“No—”

“—Not yet.” Frank, amused, muttered, not even sure why he said it. Habit. Hope, maybe. 

You shot him a glare. 

“Just offering help. I know the nurses have their opinions, but c’mon.” He held up his hands with feigned innocence. “I’m ER Ken. Infectious charisma, average height but above-average presence—”

“I’ll remember that for the next peer eval.”

“Put it under ‘Team Dynamics.’” He grinned.

You finished settling the patient, making sure she was clean and comfortable, ignoring the resident. 

You tucked the woman in, adjusted her oxygen, and brushed her shoulder in a way so small and human it made Frank ache. He remembered that version of you. Kind and unflinching, a better presence than he deserved. Yet, you walked past Frank like he wasn’t there, heading to the sink. 

“I’ve been trying to figure out if I did something…” Frank followed you, knowing he’d have to spit it out; you only reserved so much time for his antics. “If I said something. You’ve been—”

“Don’t make this a thing.” You turned the faucet on.

“I’m not. I just…” Frank hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain. “You used to talk to me.”

“I still talk to you.”

“Barely.”

Your jaw worked, tension spiking along your spine. You didn’t meet his eyes. You focused on scrubbing your hands raw. 

“I didn’t relapse, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Frank was quieter now, afraid of mentioning his slip-up would doom him further. He spoke, though, desperate for your trust. “I’m keeping up with the meetings. Still doing the steps, I just—”

That made you pause. Just a fraction.

Frank exhaled like he hated himself for even needing to say it. “I just—I don’t know if you think I’m…”

“I know.” Your voice clipped, cutting him off before the self-deprecation. “Everything’s fine, Langdon.”

The silence was stretching, and you still wouldn’t look at him. 

And he didn’t know—couldn’t even guess—that it wasn’t judgment in your distance. It was longing. Because the truth was, you missed him.

You missed the guy who lit up night shifts with jokes and zero-hour brilliance, who remembered weird details like who drank Diet Coke and who had knee pain when it rained. He’d pull someone back from a code and then flirt with a phlebotomist in the same breath.

You missed the chaos, the gallows humor, the late-night vulnerability he didn’t show anyone else. You missed what he’d been to you before everything fell apart, before he disappeared into rehab and came back someone careful and trying.

You stared at the faucet, letting cold water run over your hands longer than necessary because Frank Langdon was all wit and half-sincere charm and just enough vulnerability to make it dangerous. You wanted to let him stay steady. You wanted to respect the ground he’d fought to gain.

So, you’d built walls instead of reaching for what you used to have. And Frank mistook the bricks for bitterness.

“I just…” He was careful this time, more measured with confidence for the first time in a while. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

You finally looked at him then. You opened your mouth—

All the pagers buzzed. 

Rapid Response, Room 19. Frank’s name echoed overhead. You didn’t say anything else, just turned toward the call. 

—

There were three trauma codes before noon. Two staff call-outs. The crash cart had gone missing for forty goddamn minutes—later found wedged behind the elevator by an intern who looked like he might cry. There was a broken limb in nearly every bay. The psych consult was MIA. And the coffee in the breakroom had devolved into some viscous, black, tar-like substance that no one had the heart to dump out.

You hadn’t sat down since 06:45.

Your legs ached. It felt like your brain was holding itself together with surgical tape and gauze. And somewhere in the blur of vitals and codes, Frank had appeared—gliding through the chaos like he was born for it, which, annoyingly, he probably was. He hadn’t said much to you, just glanced a little too long across charts and supply drawers, handing you things you didn’t ask for like it was muscle memory. 

You didn’t speak about the curt conversation.. You didn’t need to. The silence between you had changed shape, warmer, heavier. Unspoken. Observed. Especially by everyone else. 

“You seeing this?” Perlah had muttered in Tagalog near the med cart earlier, watching the way Frank hovered too long beside you as you updated a chart. “He’s not even being subtle anymore.”

Even the med students were catching on. They tracked Frank’s movements like nervous meerkats, always watching, half-scared he’d snap if someone asked a dumb question near you, but there was no time for teasing now. The ED claimed your time. 

“Room six—” Dana called, waving a chart. “Gary’s back.”

That name landed heavy. A regular,  known for the kind of slow, slurred vulgarity that turned any nurse’s stomach. He came in bruised and bleeding every few weeks, drunk and grinning, always with something disgusting to say.

Princess made a face. “I got him last time.”

“We’ve got two fresh traumas, a seizure in the hallway, and a combative patient screaming about lizard people in four. Who’s got the thickest skin today?” Dana tried. In moments, she’d start picking whoever locked eyes with her. 

So, you’d already stepped forward, grabbing gloves. “I’ve got it.”

“You sure, kid?” Dana gave you a look. 

You nodded. Confident and detached,  you’d handled worse. You were wrong.

Gary was worse than usual—reeking of rotgut whiskey and stale piss, the cut above his eye oozing lazily. He grinned when he saw you. That same slow, lecherous grin.

“I was hoping it’d be you.” He drawled.

“Let’s keep this quick, Gary.” You didn’t blink. 

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. Don’t play hard to get.”

Behind you, one of the med students cringed.

“Vitals first.” You added flatly. “Then we can deal with that eyebrow.”

Gary wouldn’t let up. Kept leering. Mumbling shit you didn’t want to hear. When you reached for the BP cuff, he grabbed your wrist, fingers greasy and possessive. Something in you snapped like brittle wire.

“Baby, come on, let’s—”

“Gary—!” You broke, pulling away.

You didn’t remember what you said next. Only that your voice was sharp, loud enough that Kiara was in the room a second later, followed by an orderly. Only that your hands were shaking when you left the bedside, that your breath came too hard, too fast.

The room froze.

You didn’t notice Frank, not yet. Not standing at the mouth of the trauma bay with a chart in his hand, his whole body stilled in the chaos. Not the med students watching him watch you, eyes flicking nervously between his unreadable expression and your barely-contained rage.

“Hey, hey!”  Kiara appeared behind you, palms up, gentle. “Hey—I’ve got it. Security’s on their way.”

“He put his hands on me.” Your words came out harsher than you meant.

“I know.” She reassured quickly. “...but you’re shaking. Go breathe. I’ve got this. Go.”

You couldn’t move at first. Then you did.

The second you stepped out of the trauma bay, the air felt different. Too bright. Too cold. Like you were vibrating just under your skin. You braced your arms on the half-wall near the ambulance entrance, trying to ground yourself. 

It was stupid, maybe. Overblown. He hadn’t hurt you. But it wasn’t just about Gary. It was about all of them, the patients. The way they looked at you. Talked to you. Touched you. Like being a nurse meant being furniture with a pulse.

Still inside, voices filtered through the ED. Beyond the worried gossip, Dana clocked Frank quickly, reading his intention through his body language. 

“Don’t.” Dana warned. “Don’t go charging after her.”

Frank’s tone was quieter. “I’m just—”

“She doesn’t need a savior. She needs backup.” She looked at him sternly, eyes direct above her reading glasses.  “And if you’re gonna be in her corner, be in it. Don’t mess around.”

“I’m not.”

“Then listen to me—” Dana eased in a way he didn’t expect. “From mother to son: she’s one of the best we’ve got. This place barely holds together on a good day. She needs someone she doesn’t have to fight with or protect. So, just do it right.”

When the door clicked behind you. You didn’t need to look.

Frank.

He leaned against the wall beside you, just close enough to count.

“You okay?” He asked eventually.

You exhaled slowly. “Fine, Langdon.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded once. “Saw what happened.”

“I was supposed to be the one with the thick skin.” You stared at the asphalt, borderline mocking yourself. 

“You are.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His face was tight, concern tucked under practiced calm. His eyes didn’t move from yours.

“I’m just so tired.” You put aside everything, admission taking over. “Tired of being professional when I’m shaking. Tired of being the one who doesn’t get to snap.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” You asked, the words sharper than intended. “You’re a resident. You raise your voice, and people listen. I raise mine, and they send me outside.”

Frank didn’t answer right away. The siren-whine of an ambulance in the distance curled under the tension between you.

“This place grinds you down.” He answered thoughtfully. “Chews up good people and spits out burned-out husks. Especially nurses.”

You looked over at him. “That’s poetic.”

“You get poetic when you’ve had two hours of sleep and four patients die on you before noon.” He teased.

“It’s not just today, you know.” You needed it all out. “It’s all of it. The short-staffing. The harassment. The way we get called emotional when we push back.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Then what do we do?” You turned your body toward him, arms still crossed.

He looked at you then—really looked. Eyes softer than they’d been all day. Maybe all week.

“We look out for each other.” He said. “We start there.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Maybe because they weren’t vague. Weren’t said with distance. They were about you. About him. About now.

“You’ve been doing that.” You caved. Your bravado was thinning. “More than I expected.”

“I don’t always get it right. But I’m trying.” He smiled a little, not like he was proud of himself, but like it hurt to admit. 

“I’m not used to someone having my back.” 

“I am,” he said, almost gently. “Used to having yours.”

That was when you met his eyes again. Something cracked open between you. Something that felt like acknowledgment. A beginning without the comfort of denial. A door you could choose to walk through—or not.

“I don’t need rescuing.” You sniffed over your disdain, pride getting the better of you.  

“I know.” Frank smiled, just a flicker. “Doesn’t mean I won’t step in if you need someone in your corner.”

You let yourself breathe for the first time in what felt like hours. And when the door behind you swung open again—Dana’s voice calling your name, Robby barking for Frank—you didn’t move right away.

Neither did he. Just for a second longer, you stood there. Together. Quiet. Seen.

—

Twelve hours bled into twenty-four.

The day-shift staff were long gone, replaced by the night crew with their thermal mugs and haunted stares. The vending machines buzzed like they were short-circuiting. Someone's half-eaten dinner steamed under the warming light in the break room, forgotten in the rush of a trauma that never came.

But now it was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of still that only came when the ED hit a strange middle space, where the sickest patients had been stabilized or shipped upstairs, and the waiting room had emptied enough to mop the floors. There was no screaming, no alarms. Just the low murmur of machines, the shuffle of shoes over waxed linoleum, and the tired hum of lives slowly sorting themselves back into place.

And through it all, there you were, still there, still moving. 

You were doing a double. Again. 

The badge clipped to your scrub top felt like it weighed more than you did. Your feet throbbed, your hands were dry and red from sanitizing a thousand times.  You’d been charting for so long, your signature didn’t look like handwriting anymore.

Then, somewhere around hour fifteen, you noticed Frank wasn’t orbiting anymore. 

He was still there, but not present. Not watching you like before. No one-liner flirtations, no smug grins when you passed in the hallway. No caffeine jokes, no impromptu debates over IV push vs drip. No teasing. No lingering. Just…doing his notes in the corner like a ghost.

At first, you welcomed it. Space was good. The distance made it easier to forget the way he laughed at 3 AM, or how he always remembered who hated banana-flavored anything and kept those syringes off your trays. 

But now, it just felt off, wrong. 

Even when he passed by your station earlier, he didn’t offer a look. You felt it in your stomach; something folding in on itself. The feeling lingered even when your shift finally ended and you planned to smother it at home.

However, outside, the rain came down in violent sheets, hammering the windows like fists. The storm had crept in slowly, quiet drizzle around hour twelve, upgraded to a full deluge by twenty. You’d caught a glimpse of it while restocking in triage. The sky looked bruised black and blue. Thunder growled low and constant.

Now, while you tried to outwait it, you saw Frank standing near the exit with his jacket in hand, keys spinning around one finger, watching the rainfall like he was trying to time it.

“You're really going out in that?” You asked, voice rough from disuse.

Frank turned slowly, his hair messier than usual, exhaustion shadowing his jaw. “Was gonna try. Why? You think you need a canoe?”

You huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. “Just need the city bus to show up and not hydroplane into traffic.”

“You're serious?” He raised a brow. 

“Public transit loyalty card. VIP tier.” You held up your badge and tapped the back.

Frank didn’t laugh, but something flickered in his expression. Tired amusement. Then: “You’re not actually waiting for the bus in this shit, are you?”

“Might just crash in the on-call room.” You shrugged, hands pulling at your sore neck. You already imagined how the pain would worsen from the closet in the room.  

“Classy.”

“It’s either that or drown crossing Main.”

Frank didn’t answer right away. The rain smacked louder against the glass. You could see the reflection of streetlights bending and breaking in the puddles. What was left of the night felt waterlogged, like the whole city was sinking into the hidden sunrise.

“Come on.” Frank caught his keys, no longer playing with them in contemplation. “I’ll drive.”

You frowned. “You don’t even know where I live.”

“Figure it out on the way.” Frank pulled at the door, rain competing for volume. “Unless you're really attached to that lumpy cot and crusty blanket.”

You hesitated, but the thought of peeling off your scrubs and collapsing into anything that wasn’t hospital property won—barely.

—

The drive was slow. Treacherous.

Frank didn’t talk much, just adjusted the heat, tapped the steering wheel. Water pooled in the gutters, flooded intersections. The radio kept chiming in with traffic alerts. Flash flood warnings shot across his dashboard screen like small, polite threats.

Frank’s wipers cut across the windshield in long, rhythmic arcs. Streetlights smudged through the downpour. Everything looked like it was dissolving in slow motion.

You sat rigid, arms crossed over your chest, not because you were cold, but because the silence between you carried the weight of earlier even when you thought it had passed. 

When he turned down the bridge toward your part of town, the red-and-blue lights started flashing before you could say anything.

Detour.  Road closed. Flooding past the viaduct.

“Seriously?” You sat back in your seat with a groan. 

Frank just sighed, threw the car into reverse, and made a lazy U-turn.

“What now?” You asked.

He didn’t answer until you were headed towards the highway. “You crash at mine.”

You turned your head slowly. “What?”

“I’m not dropping you at a bus stop in a flood zone.” He didn’t glance at you.

“And what, you just collect stray nurses like wet cats?”

Frank smirked. “Just the ones who hate me.”

You looked out the window again. The storm hadn’t let up. There wasn’t another option. So you said nothing.

—

Frank’s apartment was unexpected.

It was small. Not cramped, but modest in a way that made you hesitate in the doorway. You’d assumed, maybe unfairly, that a trauma doctor with Langdon’s swagger would live somewhere sleek—high-rise, steel finishes, skyline view. 

What was before you was simple, lived-in, and chronically unfinished. The kind of space that felt like someone had moved in, but hadn’t quite arrived.

The walls were still bare. A few cardboard boxes sat scattered, half-unpacked. One had the word BEDROOM scribbled on it in black Sharpie. Another, in faded ink, simply read DON’T OPEN. 

A third sat partly torn open, its contents halfway spilled: mismatched mugs, a phone charger that looked like it had been through hell, a cracked photo frame you pretended not to see Frank kick under the couch.

You didn’t ask. Instead, you just toed off your shoes and stepped inside.

The couch squeaked beneath you as you sat. Not in the polite, old-furniture kind of way, but in the unmistakable squeal of plastic still clinging to its original shape. The kind people only left on when they were afraid to settle.

“Jesus.” You cursed, adjusting your weight and wincing at the sound. “What is this?”

Frank came out of the kitchen, holding two chipped mugs. “You’re lucky I have furniture. Most of my things are still in storage. This was my brother-in-law’s. He was gonna throw it out, but I figured… y’know. Good enough to sit on.”

You shifted again. The plastic shrieked. “That’s a generous definition of ‘good enough.’”

Frank grinned, tired. You took the mug he offered. It said “#1 Dad” in fading black letters. You didn’t comment. He didn’t either.

“I’d offer something stronger.” He was eager to fill any lull, holding onto conversation with you. “Only keep decaf and regrets around here these days.”

There were toys scattered in places they didn’t belong—ghosts of smaller hands that hadn’t visited in weeks. A plastic dinosaur on the windowsill. A pink glitter sneaker was half-tucked under the bookshelf. A toddler’s sippy cup wedged next to a water-damaged copy of The House of God and what looked like an untouched grief workbook.

Frank noticed you noticing. 

He didn’t say anything. Just rubbed at the inside of his wrist where a bracelet or a watch might’ve once lived. He didn’t wear jewelry anymore. Not even the stuff his kids made. Not the macaroni bracelet.  Not the braided cord with their initials. Not the ring from before. 

Every time Frank looked down and saw those things, it was like a jab. They acted as a reminder that he let those around him down. That his kids had a dad who disappeared for a while, only to came back paler, carrying twelve steps in his pocket, and a shadow where self-esteem used to be.

He didn’t want to see the evidence of the old version of himself—before he was the kind of man who had to prove, every day, that he could be better. So, the jewelry stayed in a drawer along with the birthday cards he hadn’t opened. 

And still, you were here. Sitting on his couch, holding one of his two good mugs, like this wasn’t the strangest place in the world to be after a double shift.

“So—” Frank said eventually, settling on the other end of the couch with a tired sigh. “You always this judgmental about interior design, or just when I’m trying to impress you?”

You raised the mug to your lips, amused. “If this is you trying to impress me, I think I owe Mateo twenty bucks.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s tracks.”

The couch squeaked again when he leaned back.

You let the joke hold for a while, watching headlights swim through the blinds. There was a slow hum to everything: the fridge, the radiator, the pulse in your ears.

It’s not weird.” You confirmed quietly. You knew Frank, what weighed down his wit; you could still read him better than himself. “Having me here. It’s just a favor.”

Frank didn’t look at you right away, but you felt the pause behind his next breath. He nodded slowly. Thoughtful. The weight behind his usual smirk had softened lately, turned into something more cautious. 

This was a man who used to fill a room with charm like secondhand smoke. But lately, he moved like he didn’t want to leave a mark.

“It’s just…” You started, then let it trail off. You set your mug down on the floor, where it wobbled once before settling. “Sometimes I need a break from my place, too. Been sleeping with the TV on just to drown out the walls.”

It was a strange kind of comfort, this mutual unraveling in a too-small space. You were both tired. Post-shift wired on surviving adrenaline. The kind of fatigue that makes things feel a little sideways.

“Thanks for not…” He scratched his jaw, eyes flicking toward the unopened box labeled DON’T OPEN. “...y’know. Asking.”

You tilted your head. “About what? The boxes? Or the fact that your couch came wrapped like a crime scene?”

That got a real laugh out of him. One of those low, worn ones that cracked around the edges.

“Bit of both.” He confessed. “It’s all still kind of… in progress.”

You glanced at the plastic-wrapped cushion under your thigh. “If this couch is the final product, I’m worried.”

“Don’t be,” Frank said dryly. He didn’t want to scare it off, whatever this was, whatever fragile bridge had pulled you back toward him tonight. “I’m planning a grand unveiling in 2037, right after I find the will to unpack the blender.”

You nudged his ankle with your foot, light. “Now that’s impressive.”

He smiled. It wasn’t a big thing. But it was the real one—the kind that didn’t feel like a mask. 

Frank’s smile stuck around, small and lopsided. You could tell he was tired, the kind of tired where everything got a little looser at the seams and emotions sloshing around in the silence between words. 

Side by side, your legs brushed faintly whenever either of you shifted. The kind of closeness that felt accidental on the surface but wasn’t, not really.

Frank lifted his mug in a half-hearted toast. “So, what’s the nurse-verified rating on my hospitality so far?”

You tilted your head, letting your eyes wander the apartment. Still mostly boxes. The flickering votive candle on the counter cast shadows over the sippy cup on the bookshelf and the sad, slumped dinosaur on the floor. 

“Well…” You said slowly. “The couch sounds like a haunted pool float, and I’m pretty sure your radiator is planning a coup. So… solid seven out of ten.”

“Seven?” Frank repeated, looking genuinely wounded. “Kind of harsh. I lit a candle.”

You turned your head toward the tiny flame on the counter, flickering like it was afraid of commitment.

“That’s a tea light you found at the bottom of a drawer.” You replied. “And it smells like sadness.”

“It’s called Rain Linen, too,” Frank argued.

You sipped your coffee. “Exactly.”

He laughed—barely there, but real. “Tough crowd.”

“You’d get an eight if you found me a blanket that doesn’t come out of one of those boxes.”

Frank stood halfway, grabbing something draped over the armchair. He tossed it toward you—a sweatshirt. Soft. Worn. Still faintly smelling of him.

“Emergency blanket.” He said as he slumped back into the plastic-wrapped cushion. “Limited stock.”

You didn’t fight it. Just pulled it over your head like it belonged there. It smelled like him. Laundry detergent, stale coffee, and something else—maybe an old cologne he didn’t wear anymore. You wondered if it had been for the kids. Or for someone who didn’t live here anymore.

“…Okay….” You conceded. “Eight.”

Frank’s mouth ticked upward. “Progress.”

You tilted your head back, exhaling slowly. The ceiling had a faint water stain in the corner. The candle flickered again, casting a gold hue over the curve of Frank’s cheek. 

“You know,” you began after a beat, eyes half-closed. “This still beats sleeping three feet from the janitor's closet.”

“To low standards and plastic couches.” Frank raised his mug again, mock solemn.

You clinked your mug against his with a small thunk of ceramic. “Cheers.”

Frank glanced at you. He felt something loosen in his chest. Something that had been wound tight for months. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a walking regret. 

—

The mattress was too warm, too comfortable in the wrong places, and still smelled like cardboard. It dipped in the middle, pulling you both toward the inevitable gravity of sharing something too small and too temporary.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the rain, or the way your guard had been ground down over weeks of double shifts and subtle stares—but you felt soft. Unarmored. And Frank noticed. Of course, he did, but he let you have it. 

You weren’t touching Frank, but you could be. One shift of a knee, one breath too deep.

The room was dim, just the orange haze of the streetlight bleeding through the small bedroom window. The storm pressed against the windows, reminding you it still wanted in. The city hummed below, sirens trailing faintly through the neighborhood. It felt far away. Blurred. Like the hospital had been some kind of fever dream, and now this was the strange after-image left behind.

The couch hadn’t been an option. It still wore its plastic wrap like a shield, and Frank, in all his unbothered chaos, had only shrugged, “Too tired to pretend I have a real living room.”

So now you were here. In his room. Back to back. Sort of.  On his mattress, the only thing unpacked.

The bedroom wasn’t tense, just tired. Mutual, bone-deep exhaustion—the kind only the ED could teach you. You could still taste the metallic tang of adrenaline if you thought hard enough. You could still feel the ghost of the pulse line flattening on a trauma patient, the cold sting of antiseptic on your skin.

Frank exhaled a low sigh beside you. “Goodnight, Nurse Sunshine.”

You smiled faintly as your eyes stayed on the ceiling. “There it is.”

A beat. 

Then his voice, faintly curious: “There what is?”

“Your teasing.” You turned slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. “You’ve been weird all night. Frank Langdon with a filter is too nice—I thought you’d finally burned out.”

He made a soft sound—a half-scoff, half-humorless laugh. “What, were you hoping for something else? Is that it? Next time, I’ll insult your handwriting and throw a chair for balance.”

“Christ.” You cursed, gaze flicking toward the ceiling to hide your humor. “Forgot how soothing your bedside manner was.”

Frank shifted behind you, the mattress dipping further under the redistribution of weight. You turned to face him more fully, your arm folding under your cheek.

 He was already watching you. Not with the usual glint. No smirk, no challenge. Just something unreadable. Curiosity, maybe. Or restraint. Tired, yes—but present. Focused.

Neither of you spoke.

The room pulsed with something heavier than words. The kind that sits just under your breastbone and hums. You could feel the heat of him, the nearness. Your limbs didn’t ache at the warmth, but your chest did.

You could see everything in this light—the faint scar on his chin, the deeper ones in his eyes. He looked lighter, too, in this space. Less Langdon: The Golden Boy and more man with a worn-down mattress, a mess of half-open boxes, and a T-Rex toy in the corner, no one had stepped on yet.

He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t lean in. But he didn’t look away either.

“I’m not the only one off tonight.”

“Yeah?” It was more of a confirmation than a question, but you still asked. 

He gave the smallest nod, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking right at him.

“You’re not usually this…” He trailed off. The corner of his mouth tugged like he meant to make a joke of it, but couldn’t find the punchline. 

“Don’t read into it. I’m just… tired.” Your voice was a breath more vulnerable than you wanted. 

Then, lips quirking faintly: “You’ve been tired before. I’ve never seen you like this.”

You swallowed hard. Your throat felt dry. Frank studied you a beat longer, then let his head fall back on the pillow with a lazy sigh.

“I guess all it took was getting you in my bed.”

You huffed, less annoyed, more amused. The laugh escaped before you could catch it, surprising even yourself. But it lingered there, in the warmth between you, in the nearness that should’ve felt strange. It should’ve felt wrong. 

“Just a long week.”

Frank nodded. “It’s been a long decade.”

“You too, huh?”  You offered a slow shrug, letting your arm drape over your stomach like a flag of surrender. “Turns out watching people fall apart for a living isn’t super rejuvenating.”

Frank didn’t smile, but there was something in his face, recognition, maybe. Or guilt, worn soft by time.

The bed dipped again as he shifted, stretching his legs. His hand brushed yours, not enough to be deliberate, but enough to jolt something loose. You didn’t move it away.

“I almost called you last week.” Frank nodded once, small and tight, like the words had cost him more than he wanted to admit. “After that DOA in Trauma 2.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer. 

Then, finally: “Didn’t want to make it—Didn’t want to… need something from you.”

That did something to your chest.  Twisted it. 

You could’ve made a joke. Dodged it. Asked about his IKEA allergy, but you didn’t. Instead, your fingers curled closer to his on the sheets, knuckles almost brushing.

You let everything settle, let it fold around you like a blanket that didn’t quite reach the feet.

Yet, you still whispered, “I’m here now.”

Frank didn’t say anything. But he didn’t move either. And in that moment, still and peaceful, the air between you did what the hospital never let it do—it breathed.

If you’d asked yourself at the beginning of the shift whether you’d end up here—in Frank Langdon’s bed, staring at the ceiling with your pulse in your ears—you would’ve assumed you'd collapsed into a coma and someone was feeding you fevered hallucinations out of spite.

You blinked slowly. Your eyes didn’t open again right away. The mattress was too warm. Your limbs too heavy. Everything floated. 

The fluorescent-bright hospital was a universe away now. But for a second, your mind drifted there—half-asleep, half-aware—and you saw Frank again the way you had earlier that night.

Not with his usual sharpness. Not bored, or cracking some off-color remark to distract from the tension in the room. But listening. He’d knelt next to an elderly man in Trauma 3, held his hand when the monitors began to drop, and whispered something—something kind, but you couldn’t hear the words. It had stopped you cold. The grief in Frank’s face wasn’t performative. It wasn’t for anyone’s benefit. It was real.

You saw it. You felt it. Something in you shifted then, even if you didn’t want to name it. He hadn’t seen you watching and maybe that’s why it stuck.

Now, here, in his bed—not touching, but close—you wondered if that shift was still echoing somewhere close. You turned your face back toward the window. Let your eyes follow the glint of rain on glass.

And then—

“Am I too lucky to think this’ll carry into tomorrow?” Beside you, Frank’s breath was steady and slow. 

Frank’s words were measured, like he wasn’t quite asking, but already knew the answer might disappoint him. 

“I can be bribed with coffee.” You slurred just slightly from the edges of exhaustion. 

A beat of a pause, then you heard the way he exhaled—half a chuckle, half a release of something else. Something heavier.

“You drive a hard bargain.” 

“I’m a nurse.” Your words ran together in a whisper. “We run on spite and caffeine.”

Frank shifted slightly, and you felt the faint brush of his knee against yours under the blanket. It wasn’t intentional. Probably.

That the warmth blooming low in your chest had nothing to do with him, or the softness he showed when he didn’t think anyone was watching. That the way your voice had dropped, the way your guard had slipped, wasn’t because of the look he gave you now, or the subtle way he’d been retreating all night like he didn’t trust the shift between you.

You told yourself all of that, but you didn’t move away. And neither did he.

Outside, the storm calmed to a hiss. The sirens faded. Somewhere in the next room, the heater kicked on again with a clunk. Familiar, homely, mundane.

You just lie there. Still. Frank shifted slightly, breath transitioning into the rhythm of sleep.  And maybe tomorrow, in the bright buzz of hospital fluorescents, it would be like nothing happened at all. But tonight, in the hush of the storm and the slow exhale of sleep, something had shifted.

And neither of you had run.

[laswells-ashtray]

I need you to score all the men on score of fan-fucking-tastic weighted blanket

I'm getting descriptive and shameless, buckle up.

Gaz would be a good weighted blanket but I think he'd move just a little too much, nothing wrong with that but he'd need to stretch out every so often. However, I also think he wears an expensive cologne and if I was under him I'd be sniffing him like a bloodhound, probably make myself sneeze but it'd be worth it. I'm nosing along his neck like I'm trying to snort lines of the aftershave off of his skin.

Soap is also good but probably not my first choice, his stubble would go from endearing to irritating against my skin very quickly however it could be forgotten if he had his thighs bracketing mine. Easy access to his arse and calling me a baker the way I'm making biscuits out of that fucking thing.

Ghost would crush me, so he's preferable. But his tits and my tits would compete for space and basically, our boobs would kiss so both of us are leaving with sore ribs. He's good for surrounding you and I'd like a feel at those shoulders but I fear he is as tall as the sky is blue and his taes would hang off the edge of a bed.

Price, arguably one of the ideal weighted blanket men. Big fucking shoulders to cover space up top but a small enough waist that when you start grabbing and feeling at his fucking arse then it's easy. It can't be helped, John Price's arse has its own gravitational pull and boy, my hands are caught in it. He'd be so cosy but my only problem is I don't have a cock and I'd still get a boner.

I'm napping under Nikolai, if he rests his boobs just above mine then we could both lie comfortably and it's be the greatest nap of my fucking life. One hand on his waist, one trailing through his hair. Putting one of his legs between mine so I can cross my ankles over his and trap him there. Arguably the best option of the MW men.

Graves, he'd be squirmy. I don't know why but I just know he'd be squirmy, he'd end up half curled up on my side with stray limbs thrown over me. Not complaining but I'd have to bite him at least twice. He'd probably like it too, sick freak.

Alejandro has a lot of leg, some of it would be lost on me but he could make it up to me by letting me wrap an arm around his shoulder. Slapping his ass like a drum until I get bored, then I'm kneading at his thighs.

Rudy, I'm huffing him like fucking spray paint. Licking, gnawing and snarling. He's getting plastered over me and I'm digging the claws in so he stays there, legs wrapped around his waist if I have to. He's warm, he's getting a handful of boob and so am I. Fair trade. Equality.

And now, for my most tactful answer. Adler. The greatest weighted blanket of all time. Because I'm pressing his tits together and sticking my face in there, I don't care if he's freshly showered or sweaty and bloody, I'm inhaling it. Any complaints are met with a bitten nipple, and then a kiss to make it better. And I'm using his fucking thighs as somewhere to lazily grind my fictional dick. I'm growling at and maiming that motherfucker. I'll gnaw on his ribcage until my teeth are worn down, I don't fucking care. I'm licking and nipping that motherfucker until he doesn't know his arse from his elbow.

[mingwrites]

Yunho + Watch ⌚ because everytime I see watches I think of how incredibly pretty it'd look on Yunho's big slender hands 😔

babe your thots are valid and i’m here to validate them…

~

you had always noticed your boss’s hands. they were incredibly sexy on their own, not to mention the expensive rings and watches he adorned them with-symbols of his power and wealth. sometimes you would sit at your desk and think about his hands-the way they were so big and capable, the speed with which they moved when he typed, how they would be able to fill you up so easily…

no more fantasizing, not now that you were getting the real thing. mr. jeong had you sat upon his desk, your legs forced far apart as two of his long, slender fingers disappeared within your core. he looked focused, like he was just doing his job, making you unravel to the point of ecstasy in his less-than-humble office. “dirty girl,” his low voice resonated just above a whisper. “i bet this is what you think about all day at your desk, hm?” just then, his fingertips pressed against your sweet spot just right, and the coil inside you snapped.

your pussy spasmed and throbbed as you came hard before your boss. he watched your expression, moans harmonizing with yours as he continued thrusting his fingers into all the right spots. then something caused him to look down, and when you saw the look of surprise, you knew what had happened. the man chuckled, looking back at your face. “do you always squirt or are my fingers just that good?”

as your orgasm began to subside, he removed his fingers and quickly sucked them clean before he let out a disappointed groan. “shit, baby, you ruined my new watch.” you looked at the flashy object, probably worth thousands, and covered your mouth, mortified. it was dripping with your pleasure, thickly coated in the sticky substance along with most of the man’s arm. “don’t worry, doll, this can be fixed,” he assured you. “but i never knew you’d be such a dirty, messy little slut.”

[lesmiix]

HYUN JU X A GOTH READER PLEASEE

Headcanon: What would Hyun-ju be like with a goth reader?

Hyun-ju x goth reader.

Summary: What would Hyun-ju be like with a goth partner?

Warnings: None

a/n: HYUN-JU REQUESTS ARE OPEN💗

When you first met, she took an interest in you very quickly, She almost never saw anyone dress like that, and the truth is that she loved it.

She always makes you know that she loves your style, making compliments about your makeup.

If you offered her to do her makeup, she would accept without hesitation.

She'd probably try to dress up a bit more edgy/goth to impress you, even if it's a bit out of her comfort zone. (And it'd be so adorable to see her try).

She'd be super supportive of reader's interests and hobbies and would love it if they could bond over shared interests.

She would be extra protective of you, especially if anyone made fun of you because of your style. She'd definitely shut their mouths.

While you do your make up, she would sit near you, in silence, just admiring how beautiful you look.

She'd ask for your favorite fashion brands and she would buy you some accessories and new clothes, making you little surprise gifts.

She would spoil you SO MUCH, you have to beg her to stop buying you stuff, as it's kinda expensive.

"Babe, stop buying me so many things, you're going to run out of money".

"It's worth it".

Whenever you send her a gothic meme, she wouldn't understand it at first, but after a little research, she would find her giggling at them.

You would look HOT when you're wearing eyeliner and she'd LOVE it.

a/n: Thanks for reading I hope you liked it!!!💗💗💗

[rafeygirly]

problem solved - rafe cameron au

It'd been maybe a month and a half since Rafe and you started dating and your car was already on his last nerve. Sure, he did have low patience in general, but this was particularly bothersome for him.

He could already tell it was a shitty car from the way it looked and he thought any girl that was dating him deserved better, especially you. Honestly, it was kind of an embarrassment to him that you were driving that thing when you had him; someone who wasn't exactly hard up.

Then, recently, you were on the couch at Tannyhill with him after just driving over and you started to complain about your car.

"Rafe." You say as you look up from your phone. He's also preoccupied on his own phone, specifically with a text conversation between Barry and him as he's trying to get some more coke- something you didn't know about at this point in your relationship.

He looks up from his phone, "Yeah?"

"My car's been being weird lately." You say.

"Oh, yeah? What's it been doin'?" Rafe asks, shutting his phone off.

"Like, I don't know how to describe it right but... like my brakes have been squeaky and I've been needing to put a lot of pressure on them for them to do anything, if that makes sense." You start. Okay, so you needed new brakes, Rafe thought. "But, also, I've been needing to put a lot of pressure into accelerating and when I do it makes like noise and my car like shakes and then it doesn't even go that fast. I don't know if that makes sense." You add. "It also does the shaking thing when I'm like at a light or something." You tell him.

He furrows his eyebrows, "How long has this been goin' on?" Rafe asks because with the way you were talking, this didn't seem like something new.

"Um, a few weeks." You tell him.

"And you didn't bother to mention it to me?" Rafe says, his voice a little firm. "You know I know stuff about cars."

"I'm sorry, Rafe. I just.. I don't know. I didn't think about it really until now with all this different stuff going on.." You honestly say.

Rafe just sighs, "Alright, I'll... I'll check it out sometime this week."

"Thank you." You smile a little as you cuddle up against him.

"Yeah, whatever." Rafe says, though he smiles a little.

Rafe did go and check out your car it ended up being that you needed brakes and a new catalytic converter. Sure, the catalytic converter was expensive but not for him and he would probably just change it for you if you had a car worth it but you didn't. He didn't like your car, he felt it was unreliable, which it kind of was, and that it wasn't good enough for you or for him.

He went back inside after checking it that day and let you know what was wrong with it but he knew you didn't know a thing about cars so he didn't expect you to really get it. All he said was that he'd take care of it.

Take care of it he did. Two weeks later, you were in his truck with him after he picked you up from your shift at your part-time job, and he was driving you back to your place. It was expected to be simply a normal day for you but that changed when you pulled into the driveway of your house and saw your dream car.

You gasped, "Rafe..." You say as he pulls in and parks his car.

"You like it?" He asked, a proud smile on his face.

"Yes!" You squeal as you kiss his cheek before getting out of his truck and running over to the light blue Ford Bronco Sport. "Oh my gosh." You exclaim as he comes over and hands you the keys he'd had in his pocket the whole time.

You take them and open the car, hoping inside the drivers seat. It was so much nicer than your car you had now and you loved it. Rafe stood by where you sat since the door was open as you turned the car on so you can see all the features.

"It's even got Apple CarPlay and I know you really like that." Rafe added, since your old car didn't have it.

"Oh my gosh. Rafe. I can't believe you did this." You smile. "You're the best. I love you." You say, and maybe it was still kind of early in the relationship to say that but you both knew you loved each other.

Rafe leans in and kisses you, "I love you too, baby." He responds.

Sure, buying a car for someone only about two months into dating was kind of fast but most things in your relationship happened fast and at the end of the day, you got your dream car and you were beyond happy. Rafe, well he was happy you were happy but also, he finally could be done with that goddamn car he hated and you also finally had a car that fit not only you but him better.

𓇼 rafe cameron au masterlist

[yurinaa-world]

hello, blade, jing yuan, dan heng and welt platonic with a child!reader who is like griseo from honkai impact?

Characters: Blade, Jing Yuan, Dan Heng, and Welt yang platonic! x Female reader

Synopsis: reader that's like Griseo from honkai impact

Warnings: Fluff and spelling mistakes,

𝐵𝓁𝒶𝒹𝑒

You are favored by everyone in the Stellarton Hunters; even Elio does it too. You both are stuck together whenever everyone else is 'busy'; you’re always quiet, really wanting to talk to anyone in general, and it’s no difference with him just painting and painting (he could leave but doesn’t).

Most people don’t see you anywhere since you're probably in your art room that no one knows where it is since there are several art rooms for you; he’s walked in on you in a room, thinking it was some sort of spy.

He looks at some of your paintings whenever he’s stuck taking care of you, which freaks you out. Does he have to look at that one? The painting in question was based on him and how he looks similar to spider lilies. He doesn’t say anything and just puts the painting back where it was hanging.

Y’know those trashy art kits with bad markers and ‘paints’ (but very expressive) Well, while going causing some havoc, he saw it and thought you would like it. When he sees your face happy (for at least trying), he is glad, until Kafka tells him that you probably wouldn’t use it since the kit is really low quality.

𝒥𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒴𝓊𝒶𝓃

He gives you an entire art room with very expensive supplies, and since he sees you somewhere where no one goes, you start to freak out a little whenever someone sees you. He hopes you impress him with your skills, and if you do, he might hang your painting in his office so that those who come and see him can also witness your piece.

You're very comfortable around him, only letting him see your paintings. You just finished wanting me to praise you for your hard work and give you a little attention.

Watch you get very shy when talking to other people at events with him. Go on, why don’t you tell them about the painting on the walls? You were the one who spent your sweat and tears just to complete it.

𝒟𝒶𝓃 𝐻𝑒𝓃𝑔

He’s a bit awkward when it comes to you; you both don’t talk and don’t leave your rooms either. Since everyone is going out to get something on this new planet and you both are staying well, Dan Heng is in charge of you. It might have been the first time he’s ever seen your room. and it’s a total mess—paintbrushes, paint, several unfinished paintings, and broken parts of supplies all over the place.

Everyone thought his room was that bad. He can just sit there on the side and not stare at you, you say in a whisper. What? Well, you get nervous whenever he stares at you, so he can't... One question about painting: you lost your mind and told him about everything, so it was a bonding experience, and now you give him some little drawings, so it’s worth it.

You also use the database in his room to get inspiration for your next painting from your favorite artist.

𝒲𝑒𝓁𝓉 𝓎𝒶𝓃𝑔

He asks you many questions just to see you freak out over your obsession. Like,  let it all out; he’ll hear out everything you say; he means everything—the origin of the color purple, sure! Knock yourself out or talk about your favorite artist, what kind of painting they did, what their first painting was, and stuff like that.

Unlike Blade, he gets you good painting supplies that aren't like Crayola or those bad art sets like pencils that have good pigment and paint brushes made with the finest bristles, like he knows what good stuff is at.

I helped you design your room as well, making it very bright and artistic like you, with your most beloved paintings all over your walls, and even gave you two matching paintings, one for you and the other for him.

if you liked this, consider tipping me on ko-fi! it'd mean a lot

[dreadsuitsamus]

Rich & Sad | Jiraiya x Reader |

author's note: this was in the wip graveyard for like a year plus, ngl, though @yeowangies admitting to being an old man fucker helped revive it. this is based on a song of the same name by post malone (i know, big surprise coming from me)

pairing: jiraiya x fem!reader

warnings: angst, mentions of alcohol, typically all the sadness you would think of in a jiraiya work tbh

I just keep on wishing that the money made you stay.

Jiraiya's pen flicks easily along the notepad; most authors opt for computers these days, and he supposes he should get with the times. But his old method of writing by hand on whatever scrap of paper he could find got him this far: sitting in a mansion with no spared expense and every amenity a man could dream of. Hell, it all started in a bar with an idea written on a cocktail napkin as he watched the bartender serve her regulars and newcomers through a peaceful reverie. It was the look in her eyes, so clearly not present unlike the rest of her working body, that flooded through the dam of his writer's block that sent him through a flurry of those little square napkins.

It's cold, though. Even with all the money his bank account could ask for, he finds turning the furnace on pointless; there's nobody to keep warm, and he's been numb to it for quite some time now. Perhaps he should relocate to the mansion down in Mexico soon— tis the season.

You always hated that mansion.

"Don't you love the view, babe?"

"Yeah…" Your eyes shifted from his as you lied.

He should burn it to ash.

Jiraiya's latest novel is for a new series, and while he initially only intended a one-off, he's quickly coming up with idea after idea to turn it into the most dramatic story he's ever thought of. It may just rival any soap opera by the time he's done— and wouldn't that be something, if he could have a book turned into a show or a movie? He's already got more money than he knows what to do with; it'd just be wasteful at this point.

But maybe a few more zeros on his bank balance can convince you he's worth it?

Jiraiya sets aside the pen and makes a call whilst surveying the empty room, reserving his usual VIP room at a club downtown, preemptively adding a few extra bottle girls to his tab before the line clicks and he's off to dress himself. His closet is massive, the size of the three bedrooms he had the walls of removed just to accommodate this collection of suits, accessories and the like, most of which he's never worn.

“Jiraiya, those rooms were supposed to be for our kids, not some ridiculous closet!”

“Relax! I can buy another house, baby, don't worry.”

Even in his own home, he's got appearances to upkeep.

Though he has worn every single tacky Hawaiian shirt he owns, of which he has an entire corridor of this closet dedicated to. The club he's booked tonight has a dress code specifically against those, however (and specifically put in place because of Jiraiya) so tonight he's opting for a black suit with gold accents and leaves the shirt behind as he buttons the jacket about halfway. He's not sure who started this movement of showing up half dressed, but he'd love to get on his hands and knees and give them all of his gratitude.

Jiraiya walks by the empty, unlit portion of the closet, refusing to think about the day he’d finally unscrewed and tossed out the lightbulbs shining light on his darkest days.

The club is loud, packed and boozy when Jiraiya arrives. He's enough of a regular to be vaguely anticipated even without his reservation, and as such there's more than a conga line’s worth of women waiting for him. The symphony of “Hiiii Jiraiya~!” is intoxicating, along with the cheers when he announces the drinks are on him tonight. He's got a card on tab at all times here; he doesn't even remember what it looks like, but it's probably a black card.

“Babe, you gotta start spending more on your card. The penalties are kicking my ass!”

“Then cancel the card.” Your voice is dead, along with your feelings for this relationship. You can't remember the last time you spent time with Jiraiya rather than a product of his wealth.

Jiraiya goes through the throngs of pretty ladies itching to be his sole beneficiary, kissing them all with an obscene amount of tongue before he's even gotten to his private party room. The bottle girls are ready, serving what he's buying to every patron in the club. The atmosphere is rowdy and everyone's having fun, swapping drinks, pills and saliva. What else are Saturday nights good for?

“Can't we stay in for once? I'm not up for partying.”

“Well, what the hell else are we gonna do?”

In the center of the room, Jiraiya sits alone in the plush armchair, staring through the sexy bodies before him and rather at the wall. When you've done this once, you've done it a thousand times. He hasn't found joy in any of this in many years now.

He hasn't felt anything.

All this stunting couldn't satisfy my soul.

Jiraiya’s back in the mask the moment gentle fingertips touch his jaw, and when he looks up he could swear he's seeing you. But then one blink and the truth is before him: you're not here, and never will be. As the image of the stripper before him settles, he plasters on a smile and allows her to pour the liquor right into his mouth.

By closing time, he's got thousands on his tab and can hardly stand on his own. He's more than capable of holding his liquor, but frankly he's had much more than he should've. Truthfully, he's surprised he's got a liver at all anymore. Jiraiya stumbles out of the club, that big body crashing into a light pole as he fumbles for his cell phone, the device being the latest edition Apple has to offer, though the old man can hardly figure any of it out. It crashes to the concrete, shattering the screen that brightly displays a picture of you looking so bright and smiley and happy.

He stole the photo from your Instagram page when you posted it on a day many moons after you left him. And he made sure to crop out the man beside you that's wearing your wedding ring on his finger.

Jiraiya hits the ground hard when he bends over to pick up the phone, and with the cold air chilling the sidewalk he finds himself more willing to stay there than try to find a way back home in his inebriated state.

Got a hundred big places but I'm still alone.

The bright light of the broken screen blinds him, but he still manages to dial your number through nearly-closed eyes. The ringer drones on and on, and just when he thinks he's going to voicemail, the line picks up.

“Jiraiya.” It's said with a sigh, softly. There's no irritation this time, and instead he's met with nothing but pure sadness. “You can't keep calling me.”

“What if I penned a new medical drama, hm? Those’re popular…”

“Why don't you do what fulfills you, like your first novel?” Before he'd waded into the world of smut and taken on those rabid readers, he'd written a thrilling book that sold poorly, but has a rather dedicated cult following after all these years. It was a truly brilliant read, and even now serves as a reminder of the man you originally fell in love with.

“Those books don't sell. The money didn't make you stay… So it's gotta be worth the trade, no?” He's far too late in the game to make it right; after your ex-fiancée has her fifth wedding anniversary, there usually isn't any salvation in pulling your head out of your ass.

I would throw it all away.

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Ace Trappola - Platinum Jacket Voice Lines

When Summoned: A museum that's been around for 100 years, huh. Guess I might as well have myself a good time, since I'm here.

Summon Line: Can't believe this museum decided to pick someone from our academy to be a supporter for their 100th Anniversary... They must've been feeling especially brave, huh?

Groooovy!!: You gotta live your life with cunning. Just like how the walrus did when he took advantage of the oysters' curiosity.

Home: Yaaay, it's the 100th Anniversary!

Home Idle 1: Ortho was saying that the pictures we can see on the internet and these real paintings feel completely different. I mean, yeah, I get it, feels like the real thing has more impact.

Home Idle 2: Jamil-senpai can cook and handle a basketball awesomely, too. I bet he's real good with his hands. What if he knows how to draw, too?

Home Idle 3: Bet it was real hard following all the Queen of Hearts' laws to the letter. If I were one of the card soldiers, I'd probably slack just enough to not get caught.

Home Idle - Login: I wonder if I'm even worth being a supporter to a museum like this. I got no interest in art appreciation whatsoever.

Home Idle - Groovy: Lilia-senpai did nothing but tease me, man. I'd love to get him back for it, but I have a feeling nothing I do would faze him.

Home Tap 1: I can really feel my own posture straighten up when I look at the painting of the Queen of Hearts. Heh, more like, it reminds me of my own demon Housewarden.

Home Tap 2: What does a guy have to do to learn how to draw such spirited paintings? I bet if I could figure out the trick, I'd be able to get good grades in art class.

Home Tap 3: Trey-senpai was saying that he doesn't really understand art, but I wonder if that's really true. I feel like he'd be good at it, what with all those cakes he makes.

Home Tap 4: Maaan this place is much bigger than I thought it'd be, and there's so much to look at. Wanna go take a break at the café?

Home Tap 5: My scarf is pinned with a rose corsage. Cool, huh? Eh, you want to borrow it? Hmm, should I let you～?

Home Tap - Groovy: Hey, hey... Woah, why're you that surprised? You must've been way too focused on the art to not notice someone calling out to you. But that shocked face you just made... Hahaha, that is the true masterpiece!

Duo: [ACE]: Lilia-senpai, let's finish this off with a bang! [LILIA]: Let's go all out, Ace.

Birthday Login Message: Oh, and here you are. You came to celebrate my birthday, right? That's totally obvious. I wonder what I should ask you to do for my birthday～ ...Ah, I feel like eating at a restaurant I've never gone to before. Don't worry, I won't pick a place that's way too expensive or anything. Let's just enjoy ourselves in a restaurant where we don't need to mind any rules or manners.

Requested by Anonymous.

[itsaspectrumcomic]

Hello! I've seen you answer some questions about autism when people send you asks, so I thought about sending you one. I've yet to be diagnosed, I've been talking with my therapist and it seems to click, really, but getting a formal diagnosis is just too expensive for me to not put much thought behind the decision, but at the same time I know I tend to overthink stuff and not do them, so I thought about asking someone who is already diagnosed on the matter. Did getting a diagnosis help in a significant way? I know it'd be reassuring, and I know I could probably apply for aid and although that would be nice, would it be really worth it? I don't know if I'm making much sense, lol.

Getting officially diagnosed was a big deal for me! It allowed me to apply for aid, it gave me the confidence to tell my employer, my friends, and use coping techniques aimed at autistic people more openly, my family started to take my autistic traits more seriously, and I felt able to start sharing my own experiences in comic form. Basically it removed a lot of my imposter syndrome and stopped the 'am I actually autistic though?' question from constantly bouncing around my head.

Self diagnosis is valid, but if you're struggling with any of those things, an official diagnosis can be very helpful. But only if you can afford it! Please don't put yourself into financial straits for it. It's perfectly fine to self diagnose if an assessment isn't accessible.

Personally I'm really glad I went for an assessment even though it was ridiculously expensive.

[fabdante]

Assuming just anyone can see and use the Divinity Statues and use Vital Stars on themselves with zero negative side effects, I thought of something Horrible for the reboot. Could work in the preboot, too, I guess, but I'm focusing on the reboot, because it feels like it fits better and could be more fun to play with. Anyway:

Considering Red Orbs are just crystallized demon blood, and demons have a (sometimes insane) healing factor, I wonder if you could just. Drain a demon of blood, slowly, while keeping it alive? Y'know, kinda like how they do when you go to donate blood. Except I doubt demons would really be amenable to the idea, so you'd probably have to restrain them somehow, so they don't just smash all your blood collecting equipment and run away. Maybe sedate them, too, if possible. And, if you're doing this to the stronger demons (because stronger demons give you more Red Orbs; size isn't really a factor here, just look at Shadows and Nobodies in DMC1), then you probably have to keep them in a weakened state. Maybe nailed to the wall with thick, silver spikes, something like that. I doubt many demons would do this willingly, even if it was just for one visit to give blood/Red Orbs and then they get to go free again, even if you paid them. But maybe. Foster some good will with the nicer/lesser demons, all that. Gives you more of pool of demons to draw from, so. Sure. Why not?

Anyway, once you've got the Red Orbs, you can take them to the Divinity Statue and trade them for Vital Stars of various sizes/potency. And then you can sell those Vital Stars to people- maybe cheaply, if you're feeling generous, maybe expensively if you're a bastard- because those Vital Stars probably work better than going to the hospital would, especially if you get hurt suddenly and need immediate care. Idk if Vital Stars would help with chronic conditions or infections or tooth fuckery, but maybe?? Either way, if you make Vital Stars easily accessible to people who AREN'T devil hunters and thus can't go collect Red Orbs themselves, then you could probably make a fortune in human money.

Which is horrifying, especially if you're harvesting the Red Orbs from basically a farm of weaker demons you've got locked up in your basement (or where ever).

So anyway, yeah. That. Dante and Vergil and Kat seeing something like this and just going, "What the fuck?!".

(I wonder how Nephilim blood reacts to Red Orbs? I wonder how many Red Orbs it'd be worth, if it forms them? Hopefully the world will never know.)

Thoughts?

I honestly don't think a lot about the like red orbs and other very like game mechanic aspects of the games when I'm working on my fanon stuff. Like I definitely think they can be fun to play with and I think a lot of people in both sides of the fandom do play with these concepts a lot in a lot of fun ways, it's just never something I've personally done. I just have a lot of difficulty factoring it in with full sincerity into my fanon take on the universe, so I just sort of don't asdfghjkl especially because a lot of the stuff I tend to do and focus on is less focused on fighting demons and more focused on the characters themselves and trying to ground these characters and their world a bit.

I feel like in my fanon of things stuff like vital stars would turn into something you make like a spell or something, something you could buy from a demon market from someone who makes them, rather then something from the divinity statues. In that way I suppose something needed for that could be demon blood, in whatever form that might take, which would then make it advantageous for some entrepreneurs in these types of markets to go to more extreme lengths to collect that blood either to sell the blood or make more vital stars and other such items with it.

If we look at them as like sorta spells, utilizing demon blood as a healing property, I imagine then anyone could use them if they can access them or make them. That is, if they do indeed heal because the other option is that they cause like...vitality, I guess. Like they give energy, numb pain, give the person an emergency boost to keep going without healing. A bandaid on the issue, more or less, so the user will need to go get help after the fight. Either way, I imagine humans could use them. It'd just be a matter of finding them or learning how to make these spells.

[alatariel-gildaen]

Everything's going wrong, and I really feel like I'm about to lose it.

Firstly, we're stuck in a maisonette with rising damp and mould, and the freeholders are doing precisely NOTHING about it all.

This has caused major respiratory conditions for all three of us. The worst of the damp and mould is in my disabled son's bedroom - this is what it currently looks like in there

The wallpaper and plaster have fallen away, the wall itself is actually wet, I'm cleaning mould up every day. We've had to throw away toys, bedding, books, and clothes of his that have been destroyed by mould.

We can't move, because we own the flat and no one will buy it with this problem, and we can't fix it ourselves, because its a structural issue that is the responsibility of the freeholder, and they have done nothing but ignore our pleas for the last 2 and a half years.

Ok, ready for the rollercoaster that's making me lose it? Strap in.

Now, as my son is disabled, and we're a relatively low income family, we were able to apply to the family fund for a holiday, something we've not been able to afford to do for YEARS.

This Friday, we're due to fly out to the south of France for a week. The FF awarded us £500 towards the holiday, but we had to pay the rest out of our savings, costing us just about £1200, and depleting our savings to nothing. We figured it'd be worth it - the holiday park we're going to sounds utterly perfect for him, with lots of nature, wildlife, and secure facilities with easy access. Something we simply wouldn't have even considered without the FF's help. Yes, it was still expensive, but the memories would be utterly priceless.

A couple of week's ago my car's engine light came on. Honestly something I'd probably be ignoring right now normally, but my husband was due to take his driving test in it this week before we fly out, and we are pretty sure that you can't take it in a car with the engine light showing. We managed to get it seen, and it requires around £800 worth of repairs. I cannot function without a car - it's absolutely vital for transporting my son and keeping him safe.

As I mentioned before, we've all had respiratory problems linked to the mould. My poor son seems to have a permanent frog in his throat. I've been diagnosed with asthma following a cough that I've had now since last November. A few weeks ago, my husband developed a similar nasty cough. And last week that cough suddenly got worse. He was vomiting due to the cough, in pain from head to toe, shivering and shaking.

Yesterday it was so bad, we called NHS 111, and they were so worried, they sent out an ambulance.

He's been admitted to hospital with pneumonia caused by the damp and mould. He can't take his driving test (obviously) and we are most likely going to lose out on our holiday.

I'm self employed but been unable to work much due to illness, but I'm going to have to put that aside.

So, I'm begging you, please help out a struggling artist, mother to a disabled child, and wife to a terribly ill husband. If I can book in a few pet portraits, I'll be able to cover our mortgage this month, and hopefully recover some of our lost holiday money, as well as keep my car on the road.

Here are some examples of my work.

Mostly I work in coloured pencil on pastelmat, although occasionally I can also do drafting film (if the subject allows for it) Commissions are £140 for an A4 piece and that will include postage to anywhere in mainland UK - outside of the mainland, of course I'll have to charge extra for postage.

I appreciate these aren't cheap, but a lot of work goes into them. If you could please reblog to get this seen, I would appreciate it so so much.

I am in the process of setting up a website for these, but feel free to contact me here in the meantime.

Thank you so much for taking time to read, and reblogs to signal boost are hugely appreciated

[racingtoaredlight]

Instructional VHS from the past

There was a day, before the internet became widespread, where aspiring musicians had to pay cash money for things like tab books and practice material and instructional videos.

The markup on these things were insane. I expeditied, ran foodand bussed tables at a high-end restaurant all through high school, and it'd cost me essentially an entire busy Saturday night's worth of pay to buy a single one of these.

Most of them were absolute goddamned GOLDMINES. The one with Mr. Big's Paul Gilbert is 90 minutes building the best bridge between heavy metal and classical theory you could imagine. Danny Gatton's cost me an insane $100 for a VHS tape, but that video was pretty much an entire year's worth of lessons you could take on your own time.

I only knew Winger from the dork's t-shirt in Beavis and Butthead...I had no idea their guitarist Reb Beach was Allan Holdsworth with a poodle cut.

But the Yngwie Malmsteen VHS ruled them all for highschool096.

*the finger point to start the backing track at 0:12 is /chefskiss

This guitar above...when I built my P-Bass all those years ago, this was the aesthetic I modeled it after. Because I had watched this video so many goddamned times, spent so many goddamned hours practicing all these licks with a painfully slow metronome, this candy apple red Strat with a mint pickguard and a 50's neck swapped on...a Strat he's not even that affiliated with...was forever my favorite.

This video is where my chops come from. Granted, I'm a long way divorced from playing like this...that drive for speed, precision and control was formented through practicing all the shit in this video.

It was the first time I was exposed to the right hand being something more than just the thing that holds the pick. It could be turned into a musical weapon in its own right.

It was the first time I was exposed to Pagannini, and taking baroque counterpoint into modern genres. Did Yngwie Malmsteen make me want to dress like a gay pirate? No, but he sure as hell made me want to play guitar like one.

That's the other thing about this video...it's a perfect encapsulation of time.

This was Yngwie at his absolute peak. Coked to the gills, but still lucid enough to be in full control. His arrogance wasn't yet toxic...rather, a necessary psychological element for someone doing acrobatics at such absurd speeds with no safety net.

Importantly, it was before his brutal high-speed car wreck in a v12 Jaguar. And most importantly, it was long before the thing he's probably best known for...an air plane rant where he threatens to unleash the FOOKIN FURY!...something that has its own Wiki page.

There were plenty of rock d'alliances with classical music before Yngwie...Ritchie Blackmore/Deep Purple, Yes, Emerson Lake and Palmer come immediately to mind. But those earlier flings didn't have the dedication to classic music like Yngwie had.

It wasn't just that he was playing Bach stuff in a heavy metal setting...take the guitar out of it entirely. He was an old-school, died-in-the-wool baroque violinist who idolized Pagannini and Bach, and switched instruments out of economic necessity. I consider Yngwie to be a classical music fish in heavy metal water, not the other way around.

The technical foundation that this instructional video laid was about as sound as it gets. When I switched to jazz, technique was a complete non-issue...not only was it good enough to get by, it was the thing I leaned on to set me apart. When I started to play all different kinds of music with new musicians, it was the thing I knew would let me step right in without anxiety or nerves.

When I think back to how expensive these handful of videos were, that disappeared pretty quickly. When you consider what lessons and stuff costs over time, and the amount of educational material each one of these was packed to the gills with, they seem like hilarious values in hindsight.

And when I look back on the Yngwie vid...and realize that even though I haven't played with a pick in probably 8 months...it's still the bedrock foundation of my chops, damn that $50 seems like one of the best investments that I've ever made in my life.

[plushie-lovey]

Hello I am the anon who found their rabbit and furby again. I am not listening to my brother and taking your advice. I am autistic and he doesn't show any kind of interest in accomodating that so I believe this is just another example of his ignorance. Yes, they are my friends and they make me happy. I have some toys and plushes but it's not a big collection.

If you could give advice on cleaning up that would be helpful. I have tried to degerm etc. the furby is white and has child's make up on it and glitter stains. The fur is a dark grey white just now and lost it's fluffiness. The rabbit is a blue jellycat and has lost fluffiness. It had chocolate stains on it and I had clean off with soap and water. But it was already bedraggled when i thrifted it so maybe getting it clean thoroughly is best I can do

I'm glad you're brushing off what your brother has said. He's just not able to feel whimsy as easily I suppose. Let him be ignorant, while you remain happy with your plushie buddies. You deserve to be happy!!

I did some research for you on their restoration btw! I'm glad that you specified your bunny is a Jellycat, because Jellycats might need a bit of a different approach to cleaning than other plushies. Although I always try recommending a hand wash for beloved stuffed animals, I've seen people say a good machine washing will work wonders on a Jellycat. A popular Jellycat blogger named Victor @ jellycatstuffies has a washing tutorial on his pinned post here. I also looked up a couple more tutorials for you here and here. Though from the state your bunny is in, I might also recommend a restuff alongside a good bath, especially to get rid of most of the bad odors that may have come from their other home (if you or someone you know is able to sew them back up. Don't open them if you can't close them again. That would be sad ;-; )

As for your furby. Well, I'm gonna be honest I don't know much about them. But! There's a huuuge furby community on Tumblr as well as Youtube and other places that can teach you how to clean your friend up. I think most people would recommend removing the skin entirely for a bath. Though it might depend on what generation/era your furby is. I'm honestly not sure! But here's one tutorial I found, and there's tons more out there. If you wanted, you could even customize your furby to make them more unique and breathe a new life into them!

If you feel you're in over your head when it comes to cleanup, though, you can always seek out a stuffed animal hospital. My personal recommendation is Doctor Beth aka @ doctorbeth here on tumblr, though she may only be able to help with your bunny (I'm not sure if I've ever seen her restore a furby's hide before). It'd probably also cost irl money, and you might even be on a waitlist to be seen, but her work is fantastic and would be well worth the patience and expense.

Once again I wish you luck with your reunited buddies, and hope their spa goes well!! Maybe afterwards once they're all clean, you can even treat them to some accessories (collars, kandi necklaces and bracelets, bandanas, whatever!). And please remember to take care of yourself while also caring for your friends, ok? 💖