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kah-way-loh · 1 year

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Everyone jokes about Americans using everything except the metric system to measure things. Anyway a Furby Baby is as tall as two Snowball marshmallow cakes

Amyl acetate (AH-mill as-eh-tate) is a chemical compound used as a flavoring agent in candy, notably bubblegum! I thought it was a cool name for a Crystal Furby Baby

[Image description: Amyl Acetate is a pink Crystal Furby Baby with multicolor tinsel in her fur. She is wearing a beaded necklace spelling her name. Next to her is a pack of two pink marshmallow cakes under the branding of Mrs. Freshley's, which is leaning against a metal stand as a height comparison. End ID.]

#tj taulks #furby #furby fandom #furby community #furblr #allfurby #safefurby #f: amyl acetate #food #< for blacklist #i salvaged the eyelashes from another furby baby! it's not a perfect attempt but it's the best i could do #when i say she's as tall as two snowball cakes i am not including the wrapper in the height #a regular customer keeps buying me dessert cakes and i don't have the heart to refuse them even though i don't eat them often #most of the time i just give them to mom after work since she likes them #also yes. that first paragraph was intentionally written like that. i thought it was funny

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shamelesshomosexual · 1 year

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long boy (not like that >:\ )

#jives junkfood #glanni glæpur í latabæ #long #tall people #vimeo #long furby #goggi mega #homosexual

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basslinegrave · 11 months

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idk what to wear to pride next week (if i even go cause its scary) but i have 2 ideas

a shirt thats in the trans flag colors but i have to resize it cuz its too big, then from the pieces that i would cut off i could try making a mini matching shirt for a furby to carry around, but no idea what to pair it up with other than just regular shorts etc (easier to make)

shadow drip. i got some black shorts with red accents, would wear my old chains (from tripp like pants, also black with some red thread details so it matches) attaching a bootleg shadow keychain i have to them cuz its fun (dont wanna destroy my actual nice plushies) but idk what to pair those with so im thinking about my red patterned shirt (hawaiian shadow vibes) but idk about shoes, i would either wear my platform sneakers with some red socks or add some torn red fabrics over it or other light customizing (easy) or customize my old fila disruptors that i dont wear (paint the bottoms red and add some black, maybe yellow laces if i found some) (hard mode) and the final is i would like to wear a tee with shadow on it under the shirt but i only have the puma one that also has knuckles on it but the picture is on the back.. so i was thinking about making a custom and just draw something on but idk if i even want to wear a tee underneath cuz it might be very hot. but i think a black tee with a small white tribal design on the top front would be perfect but all ive seen being sold is too expensive but again i could draw it? or a lineart of some shadow art - or just go plain tee underneath or a mesh tee would be perfect so i dont die from heat but like i dont like showing my tummy :((

anyway it sounds cool to me in theory but it might look uglee so i will have to try it on before customizing

#i hate using the word hawaiian when describing a shirt cause i heard its kinda rude so i prefer saying patterned shirt #but had to use it for shadow cause thats how the fandom called him #third secret option would be going for shadow And sonic theme cuz i have a ton of sonic tees but actually none of them rly match the pants #i just wanna dress up silly!!#last year we met someone that was dressed in like lolita stuff and it was the coolest thing everrr #also i can bring a furby even with the shadow drip ofc #long post #kinda #i always imagine a cool af outfit from what i own then put it on and it looks terrible #cuz im not tall and skinny

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afurbaday · 2 years

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It's important for your domestic furby to have the option to climb for enrichment purposes.

#furby #furblr #my furby #a furby #deadend #outside #he likes to be tall

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threefurbiesinatrenchcoat · 2 years

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Tired of wheatley gijinkas where he’s some blonde twink when will people embrace the short fat man he would truly be

#seriously who looked at a tiny sphere and said ‘ah yes this is guy is tall and not round at all’#what is the thought process there #fortunately people don’t tend to fuck up glados though #portal #furby speaks

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duothelingo · 15 days

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are you a furby and if so do you speak furbish

i have a long furby called soup. He is 4ft tall.

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purrpletiger · 9 months

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FRESH DRAWING GUIDE:

Hello everybody, I've come to give you all this absurd reference guide for drawing Fresh. yep. I decided to spend hours slapping this together.

If I got anything wrong or should add anything PLEEEASE lemme know! All ideas welcome!

If you want to see my "research" on this character, let me know in the replies, because there's so much to talk about with him and I'd love to do a character analysis or two, I couldn't put much about his personality or source posts in this because it's just a drawing guide!

Link to all the full images

Transcript and close-ups of the text on the image: (May be in a strange order)

Fresh was created by @loverofpiggies (CQ)

Main Outfit:

YOLO sunglasses

Backwards propeller cap

Pink Polo shirt

Crayola Jacket

Gold Tooth

SWAG fannypack

Convertible Zip-off pants

White Heelie shoes

Pink socks

He has thick eyebrows to emote! (The eyebrows are usually depicted with black hair but one human design has eyebrows that match the pink hair color!)

The bag says SWAG on it

His glasses say YOLO by default, but the letters can magically change mid-scene...

this design for Fresh is Tall, we dunno how tall but taller than CQ's Sans characters (or just Geno since he's literally sans undertale with some added steps). But his height is just his host's height sooo it can vary.

those (cyan and yellow) shoe details are on the innerside but not outerside

HE HAS HEELIES!

Pink glove cuffs!

his skateboard is inconsistent dont worry about it

Glasses Off:

The host's soul shows up in their left eyesocket

- The soul tends to look unstable (cracks & a sortve stroboscopic effect.. i couldn't think of a better word.) but not in some cases...

It doesn't have to be a white upside-down heart, that's just a reference to an undertale monster soul.

He has a purple substance full of little RADs that emanate from his eyesockets (when his sunglasses are off)

"The soul in Fresh's eyes CAN be cracked. That soul isn't his. it belongs to his host. And.... after a while.... things go bad for the host, and he needs a new one." -CQ

(example of soul with unstable effect with no cracks) (example of soul with cracks but lacking the effect)

The purple aura(?) can glow and emanate from the eyes when his glasses are on too

i miss this one design specifically. the colors and the SK8 OR B SK8 shirt were peak

I miss the SWAG necklace...

Fresh leaves a rainbow cloud of smoke when he "poofs". Either teleporting him and his host body somewhere or leaving his host behind.

Human Designs:

Fresh can possess humans too.

They all look physically different because they're different people that he's possessing.

Fresh can possess pretty much any body, but I thought I'd show the varied examples of humans anyway

Don't forget the orange jacket flaps! or his hat propeller!

I dunno what's up with the multicolor tongue thing. I think it was extra parasites in the host's mouth? I feel like it was scrapped at some point... but I could be wrong

FURBIES!:

Oh yeah, he also does this: (no image for the bat tho)

"I mean when he fights he pulls Furbies out of his magical fanny pack. takes out a wiffle bat. and hits the furby at his enemies.

And then the furby explodes in a blaze of glory." -CQ

Despite using some furbies as explosives, he seems to 'care' about and treat these two like precious babies:

This one is potentially named McFreshby The Fresh Furbrah (Fresh is mentioned to have one named that, and this is the only other furby he's been depicted with)

It can also do THIS: (roll its eyes back into a spookier look)

This is DJ FurBs. that's all i know about him

The REAL Parasite:

Fresh is actually this little parasite controlling a host body. (if you didn't know that why are you reading this post rn!?! but nah I love new Fresh fans, welcome!)

The main parasite is this purple one with the eyemouth and four(?) tendrils, the other colored tentacles are prrrobably Fresh's offspring (freshmageddon moment?) (I'm not actually sure, I'm just pretty sure they're not part of the main parasite but are parasite tentacles)

You can also see Fresh's five or more purple tendrils here stretching out all over his host's body

All art from CrayonQueen/@loverofpiggies

Reference guide made by PurrpleParrasite/@purrpletiger

pls suggest changes or additions if u have ideas!

That's all!

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eltystuffs · 1 year

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Meet Splatoon

Inspired by the iconic Splatoon 3 Long Furby that can be displayed in your locker, I created this! His faceplate comes from a Furby Boom and has follow-me eyes.

Standing at 2 feet tall, his body is made from soft, cotton candy rabbit pile fur while his head and tentacles are made from purple minky. The colors aren't an exact match, but it's close enough!

Someone was very eager to buy him so they let me know before I was even finished! Which was bonkers to me! But either way, this man is taken 😌

#furby #splatoon #furblr #splatoon 3 #safe furby #all furby #long furby #furby custom #furby fandom #splatoon furby #custom furbies

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lazuruspit · 1 year

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separate ways (worlds apart) — (m)

pairing: miya osamu/afab!chubby!reader (no prns used) content warnings: osamu and reader are divorced parents, angst, smut, pwp (minimal plot if you squint and stand on your head), finger sucking, cunnilingus, size kink, unprotected sex, marking, cheating (reader cheats on her current bf he is an npc tho) wc: 2.8k

“Osamu.”

The aforementioned man looks up, rubbing the back of his neck, and laments your first name as a retort. It’s with the same blunt cadence and everything—rolling off his tongue a little sarcastically, squeezing past his lips like sandpaper.

“You’re late,” you finish.

“Traffic was a pain.”

“You could’ve left your shop earlier.”

“I was busy,” Osamu grunts, jamming his hands in his pockets, “occupied with something.”

Your eyelids wilt into dubious slits. “Something? Or someone?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He mumbles, “How’s yer new boy toy?”

“Don’t bring up Rafael,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the taut canopy of his black t-shirt, “I know how to keep my romance life separate from my daughter's life.”

“Our daughter’s life,” he firmly states, “and I ain’t seeing anyone. Not that it’s any of yer business, anyway.”

You eye him gingerly. Osamu looks unseemly beneath the doorway to your home—especially considering it used to be the doorway to your shared home. He awkwardly idles on the threshold to your genkan, his thick body and tall stature almost taking up the entire space of your doorway. He rubs the scruff of his neck and hangs his head, averting his eyes.

“... You’re right. I’m sorry,” you say, before pivoting on your heel and walking briskly down the hallway.

Osamu hurries in toeing off his shoes, lining them up next to the door. He trips over his socked feet trying to follow you, making a conscious effort in keeping his eyes cast downward, unwilling to be faced with the barren walls that used to be decorated with photos of the two of you, or bleak shelves that once held ornaments from all your past anniversaries.

Osamu clears his throat. “Where’s Sayu?” He asks, saving himself from saying anything else.

“Upstairs sleeping,” you reply, “she fell asleep waiting for you.”

Humiliation flares over Osamu’s cheeks. “I was working overtime,” he mutters, “I’ve been saving up for Sayura’s birthday gift. She said she wants a Furby—whatever the fuck that is.”

He idly drums his fingers on the kitchen island—the counter he spent so many nights bending you over—as he watches as you flit around the kitchen, preparing your evening tea. It strikes a chord in him. Through bones and flesh and cartilage and all. It hurts for him to realise that the only thing fully cut from your life following the divorce was him, not any other part of your routine.

(A selfish little part of Osamu wishes everything else was uprooted for you, too—that the smell of hōjicha tea reminds you of him; that you couldn’t walk past Connel Coffee without remembering how bare your ring finger feels—just as it is for him.)

Osamu silently heeds your silence, and decides to help you by grinding tea leaves.

“I’m trying my best,” he tacks on, “that’s all I’m trying to say.”

“I know you are,” you huff, vigorously wiping down the marble counter. Osamu watches with depthless eyes as you run a threadbare rag over the already spotless island. He can just about see your reflections—your sullen cheeks, his tired eyes.

“I–”

“It’s just– it’s hard enough for our daughter to move between our house– my house– and your apartment every other week. If you wanna work doubles, that’s fine, but you shouldn’t do it on the days you’re supposed to be picking her up–”

Your words die on your tongue, and before you—or Osamu—know it, instead of rubbing an unstained counter, you’re now wiping away the tears that dribble like scythes.

“Woah,” Osamu panics, “hey, hey hey hey–”

He pulls you into his arms, letting your head ensconce itself on his shoulder. He gently shushes you as he glides his hand lower, letting it rest atop the small of your back. Osamu’s fingers run over your spine, over the familiar divots he has committed to his memory, and tries to stamp down the rush of nostalgia that fleetingly impairs his focus.

“It’s just so difficult–” you sniffle into his chest, clutching a fistful of his shirt in your hands.

“I know, I know,” he placates.

Osamu’s heart furors before he can stop himself. He pulls back—just scarcely enough to look you in the eyes—and cups your face, running his jaded thumbs over the cherub of your cheeks, wiping away your tears. He always told you you’re too pretty to cry—especially when you were squirming around his throbbing cock, desperate to swallow him whole.

His silvery eyes flicker down to the necklace locked around your collarbones. It’s gold, lustrous against your buttery skin, and twisted into the letter R. For Rafael. The piece of jewellery mocks him, winking under the dull kitchen lighting.

(That of which you used to slow dance under at the crest of midnight, baring the skeletons in your closet to one another, before feeding each other lukewarm rice soup with cupped hands placed under a worn wooden spoon.)

Osamu’s bigger than you—decidedly so—he’s lost his edge over the years, with his college six-pack being replaced by a heartier layer of flesh, but still, he’s buff. Has the body of someone disciplined. So Osamu encompasses your world as you hoist your neck up, staring at him through your blotchy vision. He preens under your gaze, sliding the pad of his thumb along your mouth, which prompts you—through the curse of muscle memory—to part your lips, and shepherd Osamu’s finger into the round of your cheek with the curl of your tongue.

Your eyes widen. “Osamu–!”

“How is he, by the way?” He asks, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. Chewing it, gnawing it, tearing it, before letting it slip from his bite—swollen and raw and red. “Does he treat you well?”

Does he treat you better than I did? Is what Osamu wants to ask, stuck on the threshold of whether or not he even wants to know the answer.

“I’m not crying ‘cause of Rafael,” you sniff, “it’s just hard dealing with everything.”

“Has Sayura met him yet?”

“It’s too soon,” you whimper, “she still asks why we can’t have Sunday brunch together anymore.”

“... We’ve been divorced for a year, baby.”

(The term of endearment slips out before he can stop himself. He stands ramrod straight; you slacken into his warmth. Your chests touch, kept apart by the protective fence of your ribs, but even then, your heartbeats pulse in synchronisation.)

“It’s already been a year?” You slur, puckering your eyebrows.

“Yeah. It has.”

He slips his thumb out of your mouth, hooking his forefinger under your chin. He tilts your head up as he looks down at you, eyes glazed with a misty glow. Osamu weaves his thick fingers between the wisps of your hair, craning your head back, baring your neck, and sets his sight on the supple skin of your collarbones.

His heart thumps in a rapid succession, miles from his brain. His impulsiveness overrides his consciousness, and in an undertaken lapse of judgement, Osamu tugs you close by your love handles, breathing lowly against the shell of your ear.

“Does he fuck ya well?” He sharply inhales, scarred lip tilting into a snarl as he not only smells your sweet shampoo, but something else—something a little unseemly wafting from your supple skin—like pomade, or burnt sandalwood.

It’s Rafael’s cologne, Osamu realises. He growls under his breath and kneads your waist, eyes darkening.

“Osamu–” you start, cutting yourself off with a croon of surprise as your ex-husband bullies you backwards, catching you against the kitchen island. The cold marble does little to offset the heat that flares over your body—blooming under your flesh, sluicing between your legs, spreading like a labyrinth throughout your chest—as Osamu cuts his fingers into your chubby skin, pulling you against his sturdy chest.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you gasp, but you refute your words by grinding against his thick thigh that he slots between your legs.

Your fickle statement is countered by Osamu’s beseeching “Just the tip,” as he holds you close, meagrely humping his swelling cock against you, nose buried in your neck.

You shuck Osamu’s shirt above his stomach as he works his fingers into your leggings. He massages the flesh of your ass and captures your lips for a wet kiss. It’s reminiscent of returning to your bed after a long vacation.

Osamu cards his tongue past your lips and curls it over your teeth, savouring your taste. Blood rushes to his cock at the thought of you having been chaste ever since your divorce—he knows it isn’t true, he knows you’ve had sex with Rafael, you have your realistic needs—but Osamu indulges himself, allowing his mind to caper and prance as the taste of home fills his mouth.

He moves his hand to the front of your leggings, palming your pussy through the thin gauze of panties. He shepherds out your natural lube—angling the heel of palm against your clit, tracing feather-light circles around your fluttering hole. Your arousal licks the skin of his fingers, making them glisten and glimmer under the lighting fixtures.

Osamu sinks to his knees, imploring a prayer to the altar that is your body, and tugs down your leggings. He digs divots into your thighs and leans in close, burying his nose between your thighs. Osamu puckers his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your swollen clit. He pulls back, mouth glazed with a wash of your slick, that of which he eagerly cleans with the swipe of his tongue. You twist a tuft of Osamu’s hair in your fist and shepherd him closer, into the welcoming warmth of your pussy, fucking yourself on the defined bridge of his nose.

Osamu rolls out his tongue and flattens it against your cunt, revelling in the way your arousal sieves through the cotton of your intimates, marinating in his mouth. Your dewy cunt dampens your panties, turning them a pearlescent tint of off-white with your pre-cum and Osamu’s saliva. The panties stick to your cunt, making the froth a little see through, outlining the barest hint of your soft pussy.

He snags the band of your underwear between his teeth, and drags them down your legs. Osamu wastes no time in lapsing back to your pussy, slipping his tongue between the fat of your cunt, sucking at your sticky folds. He moans into you, sending vibrations curling up your spine, his eyes fluttering shut as your sweetness saturates his mouth.

You fuck yourself on Osamu’s tongue until you’re creaming around the wet muscle, running your slick and swollen clit atop the tip of his nose. You moan synchronously with him, a cacophony of your voices echoing out in otherwise empty the kitchen. He fully submits to you—he lets you ride out your orgasm on his face—greedily lapping up all your juices, letting the rest trickle down his chin.

Osamu doesn’t give you the luxury of reorientation. Not after having been starved of you for so long. He raises to his feet and mashes his lips against yours. You taste yourself on his tongue. The saltiness of your arousal and the sweetness of his lips play like a mosaic inside your mouth.

Osamu sharply undoes his belt and shoves his pants down his thighs, not even bothering to pull his balls out. Just his cock—fat and heavy as it flares with an angry red tip, leaking with cum.

Your eyes flit down to his boxer briefs, widening. “Did you–”

“Of fucking course I did,” Osamu interrupts, jerking himself off, shameless as he admits he already came—just from eating you out.

Osamu spins you around and folds you over the countertop. The coldness nips your skin the same way Osamu nips your neck, marking you with love bites. He drags his dick between your legs, slapping it against your puffy slit. The sensation prickles your heat, causing you to moan, squirming beneath his firm hand that keeps you in place, locked between your shoulder blades.

“Just the tip,” he repeats—mostly to himself, as some fruitless reminder—“do ya want this? Do you want my cock?”

“I want it,” you cry, halfway between a whine and a beg, “I want it all.”

Osamu grasps the base of his dick and directs it to your winking hole, teasing it with the drooling head of his cock. He drags it against your clit, and just barely squeezes himself past your opening before he starts to vibrate, sweat gathering over his eyebrow.

He tightly curses under his breath, white-knuckled as he grips your waist harder, rolling his hips into you, and into the deep warmth of your cunt. His “just the tip” resolve didn’t last long, he muses. Osamu lifts up his shirt and wedges the hem between his teeth, letting himself watch as his big cock slips in and out of your cunt.

You haven’t been stretched this far in a long time. Rafael’s good; Rafael’s stable; he’s safe. But Osamu—while your safeguard—was always a challenge. He always had to wiggle himself in, watching you struggle around his cock.

Osamu’s hands loll over your waist, pulling you down on him; he growls as your pussy simultaneously swallows his impossibly large cock and squeezes it back out. Skin slaps against skin. Pleasure seizes Osamu, the feeling wholly better from the tightened fist he uses on lonely days, where his greying hairs are a testament to the struggles of co-parenting and the after effects of divorcing his first—and only—love.

Osamu pulls your arms behind your back and collects your wrists with a single hand, making a conscious effort in avoiding the stark absence of your wedding stack. He then raises his dominant hand and sinks it into your hair, using it for leverage to pull you up, to mould your back against his chest, still fucking you stupid as he wraps his arm around you, fingers finding your clit and blindly sweeping at the engorged bud.

His dominant hand leaves your hair and goes for your collarbone. He rips the necklace from its place, and there it goes tinkering to the tiled floor. A puckish chuckle crosses his tongue, seeing it flimsily discarded.

Your jaw hangs open at the pressure of Osamu’s fingers paired with the snap of his hips—his thrusts attuned to your every need.

(You remember back in university, your first year of dating, finding a dog-eared kamasutra book stashed under Samu’s dorm bed, in lieu of the usual eroge or hentai. His friends teased him about it; you found it endearing. He said he wanted to learn it all for you. To study it and improve—and from there your intimacy came a long way: graduation, engagement, and eventual marriage. Divorce.)

Osamu knows you like the back of his hand by now. So he makes your second orgasm come easy, capitalising off the fact that you’ve been strung so far for so long, that only he knows how to turn you into a trembling mess.

Your orgasm crests when Osamu slots his mouth against yours, breathing a plaintive “IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou,” into your cleft lips. Making you feel good makes Osamu feel good; so as you quiver in his embrace, Osamu’s pleasure flares, and he hastily pulls out just in time to screw his fist around his heavy cock and jerk himself off. You mewl at the loss, kittening your butt over him, adding friction to his rising pleasure. Osamu whines as he cums—cutting his fingers into your hips, directing the thick ropes that shoot from his cockhead to the soiled crotch-area of your panties, low on your legs. Some of it sticks to your thighs, dribbling down like hot strings as they tremble.

Osamu rests his forehead against your back once he’s sapped. His hot breath sluices down your spine, his lips barely brushing your sheen-stained skin in what sounds like hesitance. It was always a part of your ritual for Osamu to kiss you everywhere after sex. To soothe the burning mosaic of hickeys and bruises with his lips.

“... You can shower here,” you say, stepping out of your panties, pulling your leggings back up.

Your name crosses Osamu’s tongue. It’s quiet, a premise to talk about what just happened.

“Samu,” you turn around. “I…”

“You can leave Rafael, ya know?” He says, and immediately regrets it. Selfishness was supposed to be something self-indulgent—not something he’d ever admit. This was not self-indulgence, this was pure assholery, because Osamu still missed you, and you had moved on.

You look up at Osamu. He always cried during sex. But not like this—red, scythe-like ribbons around his bloodshot, puffy eyes. You smile, and Osamu’s post-orgasm haze, riding on the last tendrils of love, ripens into dread.

“I think we both know this was a mistake, Samu.”

Osamu hopes you mean the divorce, not the post-divorce sex. But you tilt your head, your telltale sign of discomfort, and Osamu submits to the pain.

“I’m sorry.” You awkwardly turn. “I’ll see you later.”

A tight knot nestles between your shoulders and your heart as you head upstairs, taking whatever’s left of Osamu’s heart and soul with you as you leave.

#osamu x reader #haikyuu x reader #miya osamu x reader #haikyuu smut #osamu miya smut #osamu smut #osamu miya x reader #hq x reader #mine

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cuddles-with-dragons · 6 months

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Tech: Crosshair, if you don't shut up I will defenestrate you. I don't care that we're five floors up.

Crosshair, not knowing what that means: Go ahead and try.

Hunter, walking into the room five minutes later: Why is the window broken?

Hunter: ...And where's Crosshair?

lol something I thought up

Tech: I just had a long talk with Wrecker and Crosshair about hitting and now they are yelling “it’s my turn to perpetuate the cycle of violence” before hitting each other.

Echo: Who's in charge here? Crosshair, shrugging: Usually whoever yells the loudest.

Tech: You use dark humor to deflect your trauma. Crosshair: Awww, thanks- Tech: That’s not a good thing. Crosshair: All I’m hearing is that you think I’m funny.

Crosshair: *Turns on the kitchen light* Wrecker: *Sitting at the table, eating bread* Crosshair: It’s four in the morning. Wrecker: Turn the light back off.

Tech: Do you care if I take the skin off this Furby? Tech: I want to make him a god. Once he is free of his sinful flesh, he can begin a path towards enlightenment. He will take care of us. Tech: I also want to softhack his circuits. Crosshair: I literally could not care less but never say anything as frightening as that ever again.

Tech: In your opinion, what is the height of stupidity? Echo, turning to Crosshair: How tall are you?

Hunter: What is the one thing I told you not to do? Crosshair: Burn the house down. Hunter: And what did you do? Crosshair: I made dinner. Hunter: Crosshair: Hunter: Crosshair: And burnt the house down.

#tbb hunter #tbb crosshair #tbb tech #tbb wrecker #tbb echo #the bad batch #such idiots but I love them

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justvibings-things · 2 months

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Meet Steve my tall large soft sculpture I hand-sewed for my major work project

I’m sorry, he is in fact not a furby, but I feel like the furby community will appreciate him 💕🥰

#furby #furby community #soft sculpture #art #safe furby #furby fandom #custom furby #furblr

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froggy-ink1 · 7 months

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I’m selling custom Furby stickers! They’re 4 dollars each plus shipping. Dm me if you’d like one!

They’re vinyl and about 3 inches tall

#furby #furblr #furby fandom #safe furby #furbies #furbycore

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bugblast · 1 year

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behold 3ft tall snow furby i made

#furbys #furblr #furby #1998 furby #safe furby #all furby #snow art #snow sculpture

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lexezombie · 4 months

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I prommy these are one of last Trolls original species I'll make <3 I have one more but that's for a separate post (well technically I have another, but he's by himself and not a whole species)

FURBYS! It started with the concept sketch originally; this is Dove~ She's just a normal little Furby. Big nerd, probably works in a library?

But then I moved onto the actual lore-related ocs:

Royce + Dior So the original idea for these guys was a new villain-- this concept, if I ever turn it into a fic (I want to), is heavily mature.

Royce runs a club where he deals out drugs to all the patrons. The drugs are, not surprisingly, Trolls

Specifically, it's injecting or drinking Troll blood (cus if you can eat em whole and huff em I'm sure you can do it other ways)

That's actually why this exists: Juniper was lured in with the promise of drugs, Caspian went to find her.

Dior is one of the dancers for the club and they're kinda fucked up from overusing the blood (most of the time it's Royce enabling them and peer pressuring). Dior is also a 'plucked' Furby (meaning their body has little or no fur/feathers anymore; theirs specifically was self destructive and abuse)