#Florida Prosthetics

[hcneymooners]

⋆ angel of mine; i’m probably gonna think about you all the time.

biker!sevika x stripper!chubby!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: when you get news of your grandmother’s declining health, you pack what’s left of your life in miami and begin to head home. on the way you meet enigmatic stranger sevika, who gives you a ride.

wc: 10k

cw: age difference! stripper!reader, chubby!reader, fem!reader, mommy issues, implied melvika, implied melvika x reader, strangers to lovers, roadtrips, biker!sevika, resolved sexual tension, codependency, found family, dysfunctional families, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, exhibition kink (implied), degradation, name-calling, dom/sub, dom!sevika, sub!reader, hyperfemme!reader, lowkey sugar mommy!sevika.

notes: you can definitely tell i’m southern in this piece. i love the south despite it not loving me (black, sapphic, & female) back. so much of florida contains my family and love though i left it. i hope that comes through. i’m really proud of this and i hope you enjoy. so sorry for any typos i may have missed. let me know what you think & if you want a full melvika x reader pt. ii ! i love you. 𓆉⋆｡˚⋆❀ 🐚🫧𓇼 ˖°

playlist: lana born to die: paradise album. listen here.

The white teeth of Miami were always going to eat you alive.

That’s what your grandmother used to say, her voice crackling over the phone, sweet but certain, the way only old women could be. She didn’t say it to scare you—just to remind you that the city, for all its glitter and heat, had sharp edges. She was a lioness, and you were good meat.

You’d felt it too, walking barefoot along the highway, heels swinging in one hand and your purse in the other. The sunset was dying behind you, streaks of cotton candy pink, baby blue, and tangerine smeared across the horizon like someone had finger-painted the sky in haste.

Your cheeks still sparkled faintly under the fading light, remnants of glitter you hadn’t scrubbed off from work. It clung stubbornly, refusing to let go. You’d braided the front of your hair into two plaits that went straight back, falling apart in the middle to join the rest of the mass—wavy and tinsel-streaked. It was your “mermaid hair” as your younger sister loved to call it. You blinked heavily, your 60s-style lashes dragging their soft bodies across your plush cheeks.

The ache in your feet was grounding though, pulling you out of the haze of the club—the strobe lights, the bass that rattled in your ribs, the haze of too many eyes on you.

You’d gotten through the night, but just barely. Grandma’s sick. That had been the thought looping in your head as you swayed under the lights, pretending to be something more desirable than tired. Your mother had called, her voice small and broken. She wouldn’t tell you where she was. I’ll be home tomorrow, you’d promised anyway and then you climbed back on the stage.

You’d scraped together what you could tonight, but not enough for both a cab and the medicine your grandmother needed. The last bus out of town was fucked, something about a technical failure. So, you walked, the stretch of highway endless, the heat still radiating off the asphalt like it was sinking into hell.

You were so distracted by both your raging anxiety and oncoming hunger that the headlights caught you off guard. A single beam at first, low and flickering, until the growl of the engine grew louder, sharper, swallowing the silence. You turned instinctively, lifting a hand to wave—desperation bleeding through the gesture.

The motorcycle slowed. It wasn’t just a machine; it was an extension of her.

Its rider was tall and broad-shouldered, her presence filling the space before she even spoke. A thick, short braid of dark hair hung over her shoulder, catching the light like polished onyx, and her face was all hard angles—sharp jaw, strong brow, a faint scar cutting through her upper lip. She leaned forward slightly, resting her weight on a prosthetic arm that gleamed silver in the twilight. Her eyes, cold at first glance, raked over you, measuring.

For the millionth time that night, you became painfully aware of your appearance. You hadn’t had much time to change before rushing out, so you were stuck in a turquoise spaghetti-strap tank that clung uncomfortably to your skin and a pair of low-rise grey sweatpants, the faded mall-brand logo on the hip barely holding on.

Your purse—a tiny baby pink crossbody clutch—was stretched to its limit, struggling to close over your overstuffed Polo Assn. wallet, its dark brown leather warped by thick stacks of crumpled bills and nearly maxed-out credit cards.

A single white earbud perched in your left ear, the mile-long wire snaking under the loose neckline of your tank and into your hands, where your phone gleamed faintly in the glare of her headlights. Glittery gold, covered in 3D bubble stickers of pale pink and cream roses—your little sister’s handiwork.

Between the heat of the phone and the plastic of the case, you’d tucked a Polaroid: you, your sister, and your aunt, all dolled up in perfect makeup and hoop earrings, the three of you grinning wide enough to make the moment feel permanent. Behind the photo, folded neatly, was a note.

The faintest whiff of smoke clung to you, softened by bellini, cherry, and peach. You’d tried hard to be sweet, always sweet, but it wasn’t enough to cover the night’s work. Especially not tonight.

“You lost?” she asked, her voice gravelly, low, like the rumble of her engine hadn’t entirely faded.

“Not lost,” you said, voice softer than you intended. “Just… trying to get home.”

You were always trying to go home.

She raised a brow, glancing at your bare feet and the glitter still dusting your face. “Long walk.”

You shrugged, exhaustion pulling at the edges of your face.

“No choice.”

For a moment, she just stared at you, her expression unreadable, before she nodded toward the seat behind her.

“Hop on. I’ll get you there.”

You hesitated, your gaze lingering on the gleam of her prosthetic, the way it contrasted with the calloused hand gripping the throttle.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally, your voice quieter now.

She huffed faintly, tilting her head. “Sevika. And you?”

You gave her your name, your voice carrying the weight of gratitude but a lack of trust. You weighed your options—you had none—and decided that you could only hope she wasn’t insane.

You thought of the note in your phone case.

“Lord, I confess i want the clarity of catastrophe but not the catastrophe. Like everyone else, I want a storm I can dance in. I want an excuse to change my life. Lord if I say bless the cold water you throw on my face, does that make me a costume party. Am I greedy for comfort if I ask you not to kill my friends if I beg you to press your heel against my throat - not enough to ruin me, but just so I can almost see your face.” (x.)

Then, without another word, you climbed onto the bike, your fingers brushing against her shoulders as you steadied yourself.

The engine roared, and the wind hit your face, carrying you forward into the night. You bent your neck, tucked your head into her back, and began to pray.

❀

You woke to a soft hand on your skin.

“Hey. You up?”

The words were quiet, almost careful, but they pulled you from the thin edge of sleep. For a moment, you were disoriented. The ceiling above you was unfamiliar, white with faint water stains bleeding outward like bruises. The couch beneath you creaked as you shifted, and smelled of saltwater and lavender. There was a thin blanket draped over your shoulders but it felt impossibly heavy, anchoring you in place.

Sevika was leaning over you, her face shadowed but sharp in the dim light spilling from another room. Her hand lingered on your hip, her touch surprisingly gentle.

“Come on,” she said, her voice low and gravelly, rasping against the quiet. “Mel wants to meet you.”

“Mel?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.

“She lives here. She’s… persistent,” Sevika said with a dry edge, stepping back to give you room to sit up. “And she’s got a thing for taking care of strays. Don’t worry, she’s nice. Nicer than me, anyway.”

The apartment was small, but the stomach of it was softened by a clear effort to make it feel like home.

The walls were painted a pale cream, though the paint was peeling in the corners, and the floors were scuffed wood. The furniture was mismatched, but there was a warmth to it—a knitted throw slung over the back of the couch, a row of half-burned candles on the coffee table, the faint scent of coconut and vanilla lingering in the air.

The windows were open, letting in the salt-thick breeze of the early morning, and a line of photos pinned to the wall swayed slightly, the string barely holding on.

Mel appeared in the doorway to what must have been the bathroom, her figure backlit by the soft, yellow glow. She was taller than you’d expected, her frame lithe but strong, and her black braids pooled over her shoulders like an oil spill, gleaming in the dim light. She held a cherry red hairbrush in one hand and a small bottle of lotion in the other, her brown skin catching the light beautifully.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice rich but cautious. Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, warm but searching.

Most people tended to treat you this way. It was as if you were a scared animal and they were trying to coax you in.

You nodded, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“Yeah. Sorry—I didn’t mean to intrude here.”

“You didn’t,” Mel said quickly, stepping closer. Her tone softened, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Sev doesn’t bring people home unless she has a reason. You must’ve needed it.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Your gaze flicked to Sevika, who leaned against the wall, her arms crossed over her broad chest, her prosthetic glinting faintly in the soft light. She was watching the two of you, her expression unreadable.

“I’ve seen you before,” Mel said suddenly, drawing your attention back to her. Her smile turned wistful. “At The Siren, right?”

The mention of the club sent a ripple of recognition through you. You nodded slowly, and Mel’s expression shifted, her eyes softening further.

“I thought so,” she murmured. “You helped me once, in the bathroom. I was… having a bad night. You were so sweet.”

The moment came back in pieces. Her face streaked with tears, her voice trembling as she spoke about her mother, about leaving home. You’d handed her a tissue, touched her shoulder lightly, said something comforting.

“I remember,” you said softly, your voice catching in your throat.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mel said, her gaze steady. “But I’m glad you did.”

She knelt in front of you, holding up the brush. “Let me help you. You’ve had a long night.”

You hesitated, but something in her expression, in the calm warmth of her voice, made you nod. She guided you to the bathroom, which was small and tidy, the mirror rimmed with salt stains and seashells.

As she brushed your hair, her touch was careful, her fingers grazing your scalp like she was afraid of breaking something fragile.

“You’ve got beautiful hair,” she said softly, almost to herself.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice faint. “You smell nice.”

Her laugh was quiet, and you felt the warmth of it root deep in your chest.

“Coconut oil,” she said, but there was a blush creeping into her cheeks. “Mixed with vanilla. I like to smell dewey and sugary. Kind of like you.”

You smiled tiredly at her in the mirror, lifting a hand to pat at her wrist. The tender powder pink of your acrylics were bright against it. Behind you, Sevika leaned in the doorway, her presence as steady as a shadow.

“You’re making her shy, Melly,” she teased, her voice like gravel underfoot.

Mel glanced at her, rolling her eyes, but you caught the faintest smile tugging at her lips. As a final touch she added a large bow clip to your tamed strands; it was lilac and worn at the ends.

When you were cleaned up, you reached for your purse, pulling out a crumpled bill.

“Here. Let me—,” you began, holding it out.

Mel’s expression shifted, her smile fading into something more serious as she cut you off. She pushed your hand back gently.

“Honey, you don’t owe me anything.”

The sincerity in her voice caught you off guard, and you tucked the money away, unsure of what to say.

Sevika cleared her throat. “Where are we headed, anyway?”

“Tampa,” you said.

She raised a brow, her smirk returning.

“Figures. You seem like a Tampa girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Sevika just shrugged, her mouth twitching.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

The three of you stepped into the early morning light, the ocean-heavy breeze brushing against your skin. You didn’t even know you could live this close to the ocean in Miami.

You turned back and caught Sevika and Mel in silent conversation. There was something unspoken between them, between you, something you couldn’t quite name. For now, though, you let it rest.

Grandma’s sick, you reminded yourself. You had to keep going.

❀

The rest of the day swelled with humidity, the horizon bruised with the threat of rain. The Cadillac’s engine purred low, its growl humming beneath the croon of soft rock spilling through the speakers.

You kept your eyes on the window, the world outside blurring as heat shimmered off the asphalt and smeared the palms into a haze.

Sevika hadn’t said much since you got in her car. She didn’t need to.

There was a quiet kind of ease in her presence, a stillness that somehow made the grief gnawing at your chest feel less unbearable. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the window frame, her fingers idly toying with a cigarette she hadn’t yet lit.

The smell of the car had settled around you—leather, faint smoke, and something warm you couldn’t name. It was the kind of smell that made you think of safety, though you didn’t know why.

Your phone buzzed in your lap, the screen lighting up with a message from your mother.

Sorry, baby doll. Grandma’s on the brink.

You read the words twice, three times, and still they didn’t make sense. Your fingers tightened around the phone, your nails pressing into its glittery gold case, and something sharp and hot clawed its way up your throat.

Sevika glanced over, her brow furrowing.

“You good?”

You nodded quickly, your lips pressing together to hold back the tears that were already welling. But it was no use. They spilled over, fat and hot, streaking black mascara down your apple-round cheeks.

You turned your head, pretending to watch the passing trees, but your reflection in the window gave you away.

“Shit,” Sevika muttered, low and rough. She took one last drag from her cigarette, then flicked it out the window. “Hold on.”

She pulled off the highway, her movements smooth and deliberate, and guided the car into the gravel lot of a diner. Its neon sign flickered faintly against the gray sky, Chuck’s written in soft pink cursive. The building was small and sweet, painted robin’s egg blue with white shutters and lace curtains framing its windows.

Sevika parked and cut the engine, turning to look at you.

“Come here.”

Her voice was softer now, but it still carried that unshakable steadiness. You hesitated, your hands trembling in your lap, but the look on her face left no room for doubt. You leaned toward her, and her arms came around you, solid and warm, pulling you into her chest.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, her hand smoothing over your hair. “Come on, angel. Just let it out.”

And you did. The sobs came in waves, ripping through you until you were shaking, your fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like a lifeline. She didn’t flinch, didn’t tell you to stop. She just held you, her hand a steady weight against the back of your head, her thumb brushing small, grounding circles into your shoulder.

You couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged you like this.

When you finally pulled back, your face was hot, damp, and streaked; your mascara smudged into shadows beneath your eyes. Sevika reached out, her thumb catching the tracks on your cheeks.

“Messy,” she said softly, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

The diner’s door chimed as you stepped inside, the scent of fresh coffee and bread washing over you. The interior was impossibly charming, with its pastel booths, checkerboard floors, and the low hum of a jukebox in the corner. You slid into a booth by the window, the vinyl cool against the back of your legs.

Sevika sat across from you, her body filling the small space like a storm cloud, heavy and unshakable. You stared out the window, watching the rain slip down the glass in delicate rivulets. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled, low and faint.

“You’re strong, you know that?” Sevika’s voice broke through the quiet.

You turned to her, startled. Her eyes were dark, but they were the softest you’d seen them so far, almost tender.

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing your chin. The touch was light, but it sent a jolt through you, her thumb catching against your skin.

“It’ll be fine,” she said, her voice low and certain. “You’ll be fine. You have to be.”

Outside, the rain fell harder, the sound of it filling the silence between you. And then Sevika let go, her hand retreating back across the table.

The rain continued to blur the diner’s windows, the soft pink neon outside flickering faintly against the new gloom. You stared down at your coffee, the chipped porcelain mug warm in your hands, but it wasn’t enough to steady the tremor that had worked its way into your fingers. The realities of the world felt too sharp, too close, like you might unravel right there in your plain sight.

“Talk to me,” you said suddenly, your voice thin and unsteady. “I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack.”

Sevika’s eyes lifted from her coffee, dark and knowing. Her expression didn’t shift, but something gave in the set of her jaw. She leaned back, one arm slung over the booth’s edge, her other hand absently brushing the lip of her mug.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything.” You exhaled shakily, your gaze flicking out to the rain before returning to her. “Tell me why you drive a beat-up Cadillac.”

That pulled a small, low chuckle from her, quiet but rich. She tipped her head, the motion slow and deliberate, and for a moment, you felt less like you were shuddering into beautiful pieces.

“You think she’s beat-up?” Sevika asked, her lips curving faintly.

“She’s held together by rust and prayer,” you said, almost smiling. “I’m just saying.”

Sevika’s laugh came fuller this time, a sound that filled the air without disrupting the other patrons.

“Hey. She’s got character. My dad gave her to me when I was nineteen. She used to be pristine—white leather, a real beauty. But time does what it does.”

You blinked, caught on the number.

“Nineteen?” you asked, hesitant. “How long ago was that?”

Her smirk grew, slow and sharp. “Longer than you’d guess, angel.”

Your brows furrowed, curiosity blooming against the weight in your chest. “How old are you?”

Sevika’s gaze lingered, the kind of look that made you feel seen in a way that was both unnerving and magnetic.

“Old enough to remember when you had to rewind your mixtapes with a pencil,” she said, her voice dry, teasing.

You couldn’t help it—a small laugh slipped out, barely there, but it felt good.

“I’ve always had a thing for older women,” you said absently, the words slipping out before you realized what you’d said.

Her smirk deepened, her eyes sharpening in a way that made your stomach flip.

“That so?” she murmured, her voice low and rich, a swatch of velvet dragged through smoke. “You looking for a mommy, angel?”

Heat flooded your face, vicious and unbearable, and you pushed back from the table, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor.

“I’m, um—gonna order something at the counter,” you mumbled, refusing to meet her gaze.

She chuckled, soft and lazy, her voice following you as you turned toward the counter.

“Go on, sweetheart. Take your time.”

The diner felt warmer, brighter, as you made your way to the counter, the fluorescents buzzing faintly above. You kept your eyes on the menu board, your pulse still thrumming in your ears.

❀

It’s four more hours to Tampa, but it’s the most excruciating period of your life.

You’d left the diner a little steadier, Sevika’s arm brushing yours as you climbed back into her car. The Cadillac rattled like death, its leather seats sticky against your thighs.

You leaned your temple against the window, watching as the flat Florida landscape blurred into soft greens and yellows. The air outside was still thick with heat, even with the sun reducing its intensity as it slunk away.

The highway stretched out like an open wound, raw and endless. You fiddled with the radio dial until a bouncy indie pop song filtered back through the speakers, filling the air with a thousand wailing guitars. Sevika didn’t complain, her focus locked on the road ahead.

At some point, she pulled off into a gravel lot in front of a boutique. The building was small and unassuming, its pink paint faded by time. A hand-painted sign swung lazily in the humid breeze.

“We’re stopping?” you asked, your voice hoarse from exhaustion.

“You need other clothes,” Sevika said simply, stepping out of the car. “Come on.”

The shop smelled faintly of coconut wax and dust, its racks crammed with mismatched pieces that managed to appear more curated than random. Sevika leaned against a rack of jeans, her arms crossed, as you wandered through the aisles.

“We’re strangers,” you said eventually, holding up a knit top to your chest. “Why are you taking care of me?”

Sevika didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her jaw tightening in thought.

“I remember being twenty-one,” she said finally. “The world was a lot to handle back then. Some days, it still is.”

You lowered the top and gazed at her, mouth dipping in understanding. She was so beautiful here, despite being far from at home in this confectionery store. Her arms flexed gently as she shifted in place, and you resisted the urge to press her hair out of her face.

“I’m sorry that you know what that feels like.”

“You don’t have to pity me,” she said, the response clearly a reflex.

You smiled crookedly and didn’t press further.

The outfit you picked—a striped knit and high-waisted jeans—felt soft against your skin. The knit hugged your curves, the soft plum-colored neckline slipping just low enough to expose the plush swell of your shoulder. When you stepped out of the dressing room, Sevika gave you a once-over, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“You’re a girl with expensive taste,” she teased. “Is that cashmere?”

“It’s my stage name for a reason,” you shot back, smiling softly. “And everything is overpriced here.”

“You look like a doll,” she said, her tone amused.

You rolled your eyes, brushing past her to the counter.

“I’ve got to look a little more appropriate.”

“For what?” she teased. “Tampa doesn’t care.”

“Well , my Aunt Kenna will.”

Unsurprisingly, you found yourself overpowered by Sevika at the register. She pressed her card down, its body sleek and black with silver lettering. Once again, you were struck by the kindness of strangers and you felt your throat tighten.

She gave you a look, as if to quiet your self-effacing urges. Behind the counter, the clerk smiled to herself as she observed the two of you. She was petite and had a pinched face, her hair short and a creamy blonde. Maddie, her tag read. She reminded you a lot of your mother, possessing the same shifty energy of a runner as she racked up your total.

The drive resumed, and with it, you revealed more of yourself to Sevika. You told her about your grandma, about the way she used to braid your hair with fake frangipani from the craft store and sing to you in the evenings where your mother would be gone. How her hands were always soft, even when they were tired. How you used to tuck yourself under the desk at the hospital where she worked when your heart was crumbled by women you definitely shouldn’t have been involved with at eighteen.

You spoke of your aunt, the way she fought to keep the family together, even when it wasn’t hers to save. You spoke of your little sister who in a way was also your child, how you did most things in life for her sake.

Sevika listened in silence, her hand resting on the wheel, her gaze never straying from the road. There was something in her stillness that made you feel seen, even when the words caught in your throat.

When you finally crossed into Tampa, the sky was dyed indigo and gold, the houses lining the street glowing faintly in the dusk.

You rolled the window down and leaned out, your phone poised to capture the image forever on your cracked back camera. You were such a tall child.

The warm air stroked against the moon of your face, tugged at the ends of your hair and dried your lips. You felt Sevika’s hand slide to your thigh, just below the crease of your ass, heavy and grounding, and you froze. Her palm was rough against the soft give of your flesh, her fingers splayed just enough to keep you steady.

“Don’t fall out,” she muttered, her voice tinged with quiet amusement.

“I won’t,” you said, but you sat back soon after, your heart beating a little too fast.

Sevika’s hand lingered a second longer before retreating to the wheel.

The butter-yellow house came into view, its shutters glowing faintly in the twilight. Your breath hitched. It looked the same as it always had, though the paint was more weathered, the steps chipped at the edges.

Sevika pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. The silence was deafening. You fumbled with your purse, fingers trembling, but before you could open the door, Sevika’s hand found your chin. She turned your face toward hers, her thumb brushing just beneath your jaw.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Always is.”

Her eyes held you in place, dark and unflinching.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed her. Before you could think too much of it, you leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her cheek. Over her scar.

“Thank you.”

Her mouth parted, but the screen door creaked open, and you saw your aunt step onto the porch, her arms crossed and one brow raised in quiet judgment. You hesitated, glancing back at Sevika.

“You could come in,” you offered, the words heavier than they should have been.

She hesitated, her gaze flicking to your aunt before landing back on you. She pushed off the seat and got out to follow you, her presence like a shadow at your back.

The porch light hummed faintly as you step inside, and a creamy warmth filled your chest. Your sister cheered when she saw you, and you laughed—your eyesight blurring. For the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe.

❀

As always, you dived in headfirst and sought out your grandmother’s room.

It was a terrible mistake. You couldn’t handle seeing her like that.

Almost immediately, bile surged up your throat, sharp and acidic, and you bolted—pausing just long enough to set the medicine down on her nightstand with quaking hands. You burst outside, where the air was sweltering with salt and the sudden impact of your new reality.

You weren’t good with death, not in any of its forms.

When your daddy died, something inside you cracked clean in half, the break jagged and irreparable. You’d felt a piece of yourself slip down into his grave, like a loose flower. Since then, you’d clung to the hope that love—your love—could somehow keep the people you cared about alive. At least until you felt ready for the loss.

Your chest ached in a way that felt both too familiar and entirely new, like grief had leveled your ribs to construct a home in your body. You rubbed at it absently, trying to dull the pressure blooming there, blinking hard against the rising tide of tears.

She was going to die. You knew this. It settled into your stomach like lead, poisoning you.

Behind you, the woods creaked, the trees’ chorus soft and low, like they were joining you in mourning. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Hey, angel,” Sevika said, her voice low and warm, the kind of soft you wouldn’t have expected from her. It caught you off guard every time. “You alright?”

“I’m not going back in there,” you said quickly, your voice brittle and thin.

“You don’t have to.” There was a pause, long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, quieter, “Can you look at me?”

You hesitated, staring down at your hands, at the chipping polish on your grown out tips and the way your fingers trembled. You could feel her waiting, patient and steady, like she’d stand there all night if you needed her to. Finally, you turned, slow and reluctant, until your eyes met hers.

Sevika stood at the edge of the porch, broad shoulders framed by the faded light. Her face was unreadable, but not unkind.

“Come here,” she said, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t think. You moved, inching forward on unsteady legs and stepping into her orbit. Her hands came up instinctively, one curling around your elbow, the other hovering just above your waist, as if she wasn’t sure where to touch you.

“I can’t go back in there,” you repeated, your voice cracking.

“[Name]—,”

“She’s dying.”

“But you knew that. You can’t leave her when she needs you the most.

“I’m tired of people fucking needing me.” You crossed your arms over your torso, holding yourself. “They all just leave anyway.”

“When you love people, that’s the process. That’s life’s price.

The words hit you like a perfect blow, and before you could stop yourself, you were crying—big, fat tears that streaked your cheeks with warmth and made your mascara run. You tried to turn away, but her hand found your chin, tilting your face back toward hers.

“Hey,” she murmured, her thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s unfair, I know. Trust me, I know. Let it out.”

And you did. You let the sobs take you, let them rip through you wave after wave, until you were clinging to her shirt, the fabric balled tightly in your fists. She held you through it, solid and unfaltering, her hand steady against your back.

When the tears finally subsided, you felt drained, like you’d been wrung out and left to dry. But her arms stayed around you.

❀

Sevika managed to coax you inside, shivering and bleating like a lamb, but the house was newly unbearable.

Every room smelled like antiseptic and something sweetly rotting beneath the surface, a scent that clung to your hair and the back of your throat. The walls felt too bright, too alive for what was happening inside them.

It was like the house was mocking you. Every sound—your grandmother’s labored breathing, the clock ticking too loudly in the kitchen, your little sister’s restless movements on the couch—seemed to close in on you.

You couldn’t stay. Not in that room, not in that house. Maybe you took after your mother more than you liked to admit.

Your sister looked so small on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her and her face blank as she stared at the flickering TV. She was holding onto the hem of her dress like it might unravel if she let go and the man on the screen promised to get her a spot in heaven, under God’s thumb. Bullshit.

When you spoke, your voice was soft, barely audible over the droning hum of the television.

“Get your shoes on, bug,” you said. “We’re going to the beach.”

Her head snapped up, her wide eyes searching yours for a moment before she nodded and slid off the couch.

You were almost out the door when your aunt caught you, her voice sharp but quiet.

“You better know what you’re doing with that woman.”

Kenna’s words stopped you cold, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder as you turned to face her. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her face shadowed by the dim porch light.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with her,” you admitted, your voice low. “But I know I trust her.”

Your aunt studied you for a long moment, her gaze heavy and cutting. Finally, she stepped aside, her expression softening just enough to let you know she wasn’t angry, just worried.

“I know what infatuation looks like. I know what love looks like too, even when it’s still on its way. It’s coming, baby. Just—,”she sighed, breaking off.

“Just be careful,” she finished.

You hugged her tight, sagging as she slid a hand over her hair before letting you go.

Sevika was waiting in the car, her arm draped over the steering wheel, her face unreadable in the twilight. Your sister climbed into the backseat, curling up immediately with her Lisa Frank coloring book, and you slid into the passenger seat without a word.

The drive was quiet, the low hum of the city filling the space between you. Sevika didn’t push, didn’t ask what had happened inside. She just drove, and you were so grateful you could’ve kissed her.

The beach was nearly empty when you arrived, the sun beyond gone now. You spread a blanket out on the cool gray sand, letting your sister run down to the water. Her laughter echoed faintly, carried by the breeze, and for a moment, you let yourself relax.

You pulled off your woven cover-up, revealing the soft orange bikini you’d slipped on. The well-loved fabric clung to you, accentuating the plush curves of your body in a way that made you stall for only a moment. But then Sevika looked at you, and the way her gaze dragged over you made all air flee your throat.

She swallowed hard, her jaw working as she tore her eyes away and stared out at the water instead.

“You look nice,” she said, her voice gruff.

You snorted, sitting down on the blanket.

“Nice?”

“Very nice,” she amended, but the rasp in her voice gave her away.

“You do too,” you told her and you meant it.

She was gorgeous in her black cropped tee and little black cargoes. This was “as beachy as she was willing to get”. You didn’t give a damn. You wanted to eat her alive.

The sky deepened into a hazy indigo, the stars faint and scattered. Your sister danced along the shoreline, her feet splashing in the shallow waves. You watched her, your chest aching with something you couldn’t name.

“I wish this was my entire life,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Sevika.

She turned to you, her brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, gesturing to your sister. “Taking care of her. Taking care of my daughter with my wife. No illness, no bills piling up, no—” Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard. “No worries. Just a quiet life.”

Sevika didn’t respond right away. When you finally looked at her, her face was so soft in a way you knew was probably a rarity. Her prosthetic raised in an aborted motion, as if she’d thought to touch your face.

“I could take care of you, baby,” she said quietly, the words slipping from her lips like a promise.

Your breath caught, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

“Come back with me, [Name],” she said, her voice low and steady. “Stay with me and Melly. Bring [Sister’s Name]. You don’t have to do it alone all the time.”

The fantasy of her words pressed against your chest, warm and overwhelming. For a moment, you let yourself imagine it: her, Melly, your sister, a life where the world's heaviness couldn’t crush you.

Your sister called out from the water, waving a piece of driftwood she’d found, and the moment broke. Sevika’s hand brushed yours, solid and grounding, and when you turned back to her, her eyes were still on you, waiting.

The tide lapped at the shore, the sound mingling with your sister’s laughter, and you felt a rising pulse in your mouth, on your tongue.

“They do fireworks at the docks. You have to pay, but we sneak in all the time. You wanna see?”

“Sure,” Sevika said.

The answer came so easily and you knew she’d give you everything. Maybe even love you forever. The thought made you tingle and you dug your toes into the sand.

“Let’s go,” you said, your pinky twisting around hers.

You both knew you weren’t talking about the fireworks.

With a wry smile she rose and set about taking you home again.

Your sister—forever your baby—was curled fast asleep in the back seat of Sevika’s car by the time you pulled out of the lot, her face slack with the kind of peace only children seemed capable of. Her soft snores filled the space between you as Sevika drove back to your grandmother’s house, the streets quiet and warm, lit faintly by streetlights. The evening air hung heavy, sticking to your skin like a second layer.

You glanced at Sevika as she drove, her profile lit in flashes by the passing lights. Her grip on the wheel was loose, but her fingers drummed absently against the leather, her thoughts somewhere else. Maybe with you.

You wondered if she was nervous. You wondered if she knew how much you were.

“She’s out like a light,” Sevika murmured, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Guess it’s just us.”

You swallowed, your fingers playing with the hem of your cover-up, and nodded. “Just us.”

Your aunt was waiting on the porch when you arrived. She was perched on the railing, her vape glowing faintly in the dark. You knew the scent without looking: cucumber, apple, and sour cherry.

Her sharp gaze moved between the two of you as Sevika carried your sister inside, her long stride easy and steady despite the weight of the little girl in her arms.

“Enjoyed your family outing?” Aunt Kenna asked, teasing but pointed, as you lingered by the door.

You blinked at her, startled, heat rising in your cheeks. “It wasn’t like that.”

She snorted, taking a long drag. “Sure it wasn’t .”

❀

The docks were quieter than you expected when you arrived. Most of the families had settled in their little corners, kids running barefoot across the wooden planks, their laughter echoing into the open sky. The air smelled of pear, peach blossoms, and distant charcoal grills, a mix of sugar and fire that felt like the very essence of where you’d been born and raised. 

Sevika parked far enough away to avoid the crowd but close enough for you to see the shimmering reflections of the boats swaying in the dark water. She leaned back against the hood of her car, her long legs stretched out in front of her, and watched as you wandered closer to the edge, the creamy orange of your tiny bikini glowing faintly in the dim light.

You should’ve been illegal.

“Careful, angel,” she called, her voice warm, fond. “You fall in, I’m not jumping after you.”

You turned, smirking, the breeze tugging at the bow sitting pretty in the middle of your full breasts. 

“I can swim.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to fish you out,” she said, but her smile gave her away. She was watching you so intently, her gaze loaded, as if committing you to memory.

You walked back toward her, your arms wrapped around yourself, and stopped just a foot away. The tension between you was almost tangible now, electric. You could feel it humming in the air, in the way her eyes lingered on the curve of your wide hips, the dip of your collarbone. It made your breath hitch.

“I’ve always loved the docks,” you said softly. “They feel… timeless. Like you could stand here forever and nothing would change.”

Sevika hummed, tilting her head to look up at you. “You think that’s a good thing?”

You shrugged, your lips curving faintly. 

“Sometimes.”

The first firework burst above you then, a bloom of pink and gold that lit up the sky and reflected off the water. A shock of red followed shortly after. You both looked up, the moment suspended, the sound of the explosion echoing in your chest.

You glanced at Sevika, her face bathed in the soft glow of the fireworks, and felt something shift inside you. Something undeniable.

The show continued, and you moved to lean against the hood of her car. The metal was warm and your stomach was buzzing at the nearness of Sevika’s broad body.

By the time the fireworks were halfway through, you couldn’t focus on them anymore. The loud bursts of color seemed secondary to the way Sevika was lounging next to you, her broad shoulders relaxed, her eyes soaking in the way goosebumps bubbled along your arms. It felt like she was daring you to do something, to cross the line you’d been dancing around since she’d swept you off the highway.

You moved closer, your bare feet brushing against hers, and she straightened slightly, her head listing to the side as she watched you.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, her voice low.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding. 

“I’m thinking…” You trailed off, your fingers twisting in the sides of your bikini bottom. “I’m thinking this feels… nice.”

Her lips quirked, just slightly, but her gaze was serious. “Nice?”

“So good,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I feel… safe with you. Things are perfect like this, and—and I’m probably never gonna feel this way again.”

The words hung between you, honest and raw, and you could see the way they landed on her, the way her expression softened, her guard slipping for just a moment.

“I’d never hurt you,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “You know that, right?”

You nodded, stepping even closer until you were standing between her legs, the warmth of her body seeping into yours. “I know.”

You didn’t, really. She could be selling you a paper thin dream. But your hope had always been the largest part of you. It spurred the flame you felt for her, your aching burning desire to be with her all the time. To ride by her side without question. 

Her hand came up then, hesitating for just a second before settling on your waist. The touch was light, almost cautious, but it sent an electric current straight through you.

“Sevika,” you whispered, your voice stumbling.

She leaned in slightly, her breath warm against your cheek. 

“Yeah?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the gap between you, your lips brushing against hers in a kiss that felt just right, like the tide meeting the shore. Your body lit up, and you collapsed into her—trusting and free. 

She stilled for a moment, as if surprised, but then her hand tightened on your waist and she kissed you back, slow and deliberate.

The world seemed to fade then, the fireworks a distant, glittering symphony in the black sky. All you could feel was her—her warmth, her strength, the way she seemed determined to hold you together even as you felt like you might fall apart.

When you finally pulled back, your breath coming in weak gasps, lightheaded and aching to faint, she rested her forehead against yours, searching your dilated eyes.

Your lip gloss was smeared across Sevika’s jaw, leaving a streak of shimmering peach and rose that caught in the fleeting light of the evening. It clung to her skin, soft and vivid As she moved, the stain glistened faintly, the contrast against her sharp, weathered features sending a slow, aching thrill down your spine. 

It was yours, this faint, glittering mark, lingering in the space where your mouth had been. She made no effort to remove it.

“Angel,” she murmured, her voice rough. “You sure about this?”

You nodded, your hands clutching at her shoulders. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Her smile was soft, almost reverent, as she pressed another searing kiss to your lips. 

“Come on,” she said, pulling back just enough to look at you. “Let’s get in the car.”

❀

Your palm slapped hard against the roof, your teeth almost tearing through your bottom lip as you tried to hold back a loud moan. 

Beneath you, Sevika gripped the copious flesh of your ass as she sucked at your clit. 

“Oh, shit, Sevika. Fuck.”

In the beginning you were so careful, worried about blocking her airway. With a hard slap to your ass she pulled you down, relentless in taking all of you. 

“Hnnnnnh,” you whimpered. “Sevi, fuuuuuck.”

Sevika hummed in satisfaction at that. As she watched your face she grazed your clit with her teeth, relishing in how you arched. 

You were so warm and supple between her fingers, your pussy slobbering over her nose and mouth. You tasted so good, so musky and honeyed. She never wanted to let you go. 

Slowly, she slide you down and pressed you down to her chest as she undid your bikini top so that your tits spilled eagerly against her own. She then tenderly tucked two fingers inside of you, cooing as you whined at the stretch. 

She began to bounce you by the fabric of your bottoms, forcing you to ride her fingers until they were covered in the thin film of your wetness. You moaned at her strength, at how easily she’d decided how you’d take her. 

“Good fucking girl. So sweet, aren’t you, baby? Hmm?”

“Sevi, please. Just—just a little faster.”

She grinned meanly, inserting a third finger and curling them—raking cruelly against your g-spot. You sank further into her, swiveling your hips if only to get her deeper. To take her harder. Your pussy was weeping, emptying itself onto her hand.

“Jesus, sweetheart. You’re leaking all over me. ‘M never gonna get this out of these seats.”

“Good,” you breathed out, smiling impishly.

Sevika’s eyes darkened and she suddenly rearranged you till you were on your back against the leather seats, your legs wholly spread. she lowered between them, licking a long stripe up to your clit experimentally. 

She had you soft and loose. You didn’t realize just how spacious this car was.

You moaned, high and loud, snapping into an arch until you were forced to come back down, Sevika’s arm holding your hips firmly. Your eyes were closed now, and your eyelids were no longer just black, explosions of color staining them, ripping through you.

Sevika lapped at you, taking her time but still intentional with the way she touched you. She used a hand to spread you apart burying her face into her pussy, her nose becoming wet again with your rabid need. She became messy, moving her head back and forth, slurping at you until you were almost shaking, on the edge of something greater.

Settling back just slightly, she spat harshly into your cunt and rubbed it into your clit, pressing down until it was close to painful. You couldn’t breathe correctly. You couldn’t even remember your name.

"Sevi. Sevi. Mommy, oh my fucking God.“

Sevika said nothing, just caught a lip of your cunt between her teeth, biting down as she slid her fingers back in.

"Unh," is what you had to add to the nonexistent conversation and Sevika grinned against you.

She spread her fingers and then curled them, dragging your hips into her lap as she sat up. You couldn’t feel your fucking legs.

"Yes. Yeah. Yeah, just like that. It feels so fucking good."

Sevika was driven and vicious, determined to eat away at the woman beneath her. You curved your back as your orgasm approached, determined to feel it all the way up in the cavern of your mouth. You needed this.

Sevika leaned over you, tilting your head down so that you were looking at one another.

"I want you to keep looking at me as you cum."

You made a faint noise of agreement and clutched at Sevika’s arms. She took your hands and placed them underneath your knees, so that you could hold yourself open. It spread you apart until she was able to view how pink and puffy you were. 

“I can’t wait to get you in bed, honey. ‘M gonna bend you over, open that tight little cunt with my cock, and watch you swallow me.”

“Oh.” You let a little groan of satisfaction as she thumbed at your clit. 

Sevika pressed your foreheads together and thumbed at your mouth. You felt both here and there, brain blanking. 

“Ohh,” she mocked you with a slight smile. “You’re so fucking cute.”

You cast your head back as Sevika returned her mouth to your pussy, suckling at it in combination with her fingers carving a space deep inside of you.

"Come on, angel," she urged. "Be good for me."

You were trying, goddamnit.

"Gonna take a photo of this creamy cunt. Show Melly, tell her that I did this. That you let me."

You let out a high whine, and she nodded in faux sympathy.

“Mmm? Is that what you want to do? Want me to take you to that shitty club and spread you open on stage? Stake my claim?”

A fourth finger now. Her voice dropped as if telling you a secret.

“Maybe I’ll slide some cold, hard cash into this slutty cunt, stretch that slit.” Faster now. Your toes curled. “ Fuck. I’m sorry, baby. Mommy just wants to slut you out.”

She pressed a delicate kiss to your cunt and you were unsure if what came next was just the slam of your hand against the door echoing or another firework going off. 

All you knew was that the world around you was roaring, that she refused to stop. All you knew was her digging into you. 

You imploded.

❀

The drive back was quiet, the tension between you still palpable but softer now, sated and sleepy. Sevika reached over once, her fingers brushing against your cheek and you shifted, pressing the petals of your lips into the center of her palm without hesitation.

When you finally pulled into your grandmother’s driveway, the house bathed in the soft glow of the porch light, you turned to her, your heart full to bursting.

“Stay,” you said, your emotions splayed wide open. “Just for a little while.”

She looked at you for a long moment, and then she nodded. “Okay.”

You both knew it wasn’t just for a little while.

❀ 

The house smelled like hibiscus and coffee when you walked in, the faint scent of six-dollar soy candles lingering in the corners. Your aunt was at the sink, her hands submerged in soapy water, her curls pinned back with a clip. She turned when she heard the door creak open, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she took in Sevika trailing behind you, broad-shouldered and quiet.  

“You brought her back?” she asked, not in a disparaging manner, though her tone carried the weight of an older woman who’d seen it all.

“[Sister’s Name] forgot something in her car,” you lied easily, gesturing toward said alibi, who was peeking into the kitchen while rubbing a fist over her eye, her drowsy greeting muffled as she dragged her blanket behind her.  

Your aunt didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue either. Instead, she flicked her chin toward the counter. 

“If she’s staying, she may as well help.”  

Sevika looked at you, one brow arched slightly in amusement. You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though the idea of her folding herself into your life—even for something as mundane as this—made your stomach swoop. 

The kitchen was broiling, almost unbearably so, with the old oven humming faintly and the humidity from the day still clinging to the walls. Sevika rolled up her sleeves, revealing the curve of her forearms, the prosthetic gleaming faintly in the soft overhead light. 

You tried not to stare, but your eyes kept drifting—over the way her hands moved as she dried the dishes your aunt handed her, the faint flex of muscle under her skin.  

“You ever wash a dish before?” your aunt asked, a smirk tugging at her lips.  

“Plenty,” Sevika admitted, her voice low and even. “Did a couple restaurant stints when I first came to this place. I was hoping to never do that shit again.”  

You bit back a smile, ducking your head as you reached for a towel to dry the counter. The space felt smaller with her in it, her silhouette filling every corner, her quick movements electric.  

Your aunt glanced between the two of you, her gaze lingering on Sevika before she handed her another plate. 

“You’re a hard worker. Good. She needs someone who can keep up.”  

Sevika’s lips quirked, but she didn’t respond, her attention focused on the task in front of her.  

The radio crackled faintly from the corner, playing some old Cuban bolero your aunt loved, and you found yourself swaying slightly as you worked, the rhythm infectious. You caught Sevika watching you out of the corner of her eye, her gaze soft but intent, and your cheeks warmed.  

“You dance to this too?” she asked, her voice pitched low enough that your aunt didn’t catch it.  

“Sometimes,” you said, keeping your focus on the counter. “Not for free, though.”  

She chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in her chest. “Figures.”  

Your aunt, oblivious or maybe just tactfully ignoring the tension that weaved itself between you, turned to Sevika with a clean dish in hand. 

“Rinse this for me, would you? And don’t let her distract you—she’s been trouble since she could fucking walk.”  

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sevika said, glancing at you with a spark of amusement in her eyes.  

The night wore on, the kitchen growing quieter as your aunt finally finished and stepped out to check on your sister. You stayed behind, leaning against the counter as Sevika dried her hands on a threadbare patch of towel. 

“I can’t believe you were hustling in restaurants,” you said, nodding toward the sink.  

She smirked, tossing the towel onto the counter. 

“Don’t sound so surprised. I can be a delight.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

 “Thanks for helping.”  

“Anytime,” she said, her voice softening slightly.  

You watched her for a moment, the way her shoulders seemed less tense now, the way her hair caught the light. The memory of her hands on you earlier still lingered, watering over your skin. It was a secret only the two of you shared.  

“You okay?” she asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she stepped closer.  

You nodded, though your chest felt tight, your pulse thrumming in your ears. 

“Yeah. Just a little tired.”  

Her hand brushed yours, just barely, but it was enough to make your heart skip. She noticed, her gaze dropping to where your fingers nearly touched before she pulled back, her jaw tightening.  

“We should get some sleep,” she said, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” you murmured, though you didn’t move.  

For a moment, neither of you did, the hum of the radio the only sound in the room. Then she stepped back, giving you space you didn’t want, and you let her.  

❀

Your bedroom felt much like the inside of a shell—quiet and strange, the air soaked with a mixture of rose, magnolia, and something darker, something that sat low in your chest. You could still taste the golden slices of your childhood, still feel the ache in your ribs that came from building elaborate forts. 

But now there was Sevika, solid and steady beneath you.

As soon as the door had closed, she’d taken you apart slowly, carefully, as though she’d known you needed it to feel stable again. 

The rough pads of her fingers, the soft murmur of her voice, the way she called you princess like it was the only name you’d ever had. And you had suffered in silence, hand across your mouth as you clenched and shook around her head for the third time, then the fourth. 

You’d finally tired after a good ride on her thigh, holding on desperately to the nape of neck. Her baby hair was soft there, tender. She came when you kissed her nose, slid down to her mouth, and called her beautiful. She’d whimpered, bucked awkwardly around your fingers, and you held her to you as you whispered her name. 

You’d looked it up in the bathroom. Sevika. Of Indian and Sanskrit origin. Servant of God. 

Now, she lay between your legs, her head resting heavy and warm against your stomach. The weight of her felt magical, made your body feel more virginal than it ever had been, and you sighed lowly as the first rays of sunlight slipped through the blinds, casting pale gold stripes across her back. 

The swan wings stretched with her every move, the feathers catching flight as she breathed. Muted ivory and soft grays leaned tenderly into the faintest hints of lavender and navy blue, the delicate gradient of ink glowing against her deep, bronze skin.

You reached out, tracing the curve of a wing’s tip near her shoulder blade. The ink felt warm under your fingertips, her skin soft but unyielding. The swan’s head, nestled at the base of her neck where the wings met, was elegant and sharp, its eyes bright as if they could see into you. You followed the line of its neck with your thumb, your touch lingering at the place where her spine dipped, and she hummed low in her throat, a sound that vibrated through your body.

She tilted her head, her cheek brushing against the softness of your belly as her eyes opened slowly, sleep still heavy in her gaze. 

“You like it?” she murmured, voice rough and low.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re beautiful.”

You had already said this, and the reminder made you blush in embarrassment. A slow, lopsided smile tugged at her lips, and she closed her eyes again, sinking deeper into you as if she belonged there. You felt her hand slide up to rest on your thigh, her fingers splayed against your skin, holding you in place like she was afraid you’d disappear into the rising morning.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, and you flinched at the sound, the world outside pressing back in. Sevika didn’t move, just let her hand trail lazily up your spine as you reached for it. The screen glowed with messages from your aunt:  

aunt kenna 𓆉: Couldn’t get anyone to cover the rest of my shifts this week. aunt kenna 𓆉: Mom’s still kicking. She’s getting stronger. aunt kenna 𓆉: Ty for coming home. See you soon. Love you, bug x 

Still alive, you thought. The words lit up something inside you, bright and raw and impossible to contain. You laughed, the sound catching on the edge of a sob, and dropped the phone onto the bed.

“What is it?” Sevika asked, her voice filling with concern.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. The words tangled in your throat. Instead, you turned to her, your fingers trembling as they found her face, tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her full mouth. 

“She’s still alive,” you whispered, the words spilling out like a prayer.

Her eyes softened, her hand sliding up to cradle your face, her thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth. 

“Yeah,” she said, her voice steady, certain. “She’s a strong woman, just like the rest of you.”

The relief hit you all at once, sharp and overwhelming, and you kissed her because you couldn’t think of anything else to do. It was messy and desperate, your hands fisting in her hair as you tried to pour every unspoken thing into her mouth. She let you, her body surrendering to its basest urges . 

“Still alive,” you repeated, this time against her lips, your forehead resting against hers as your tears slipped silently onto her skin. 

“Mmhmm,” she murmured, her voice soft but sure, her hands steady on your hips. “You’re all gonna live forever.”

You kissed her again, because you needed to. You needed her. 

You believed her. 

And the truth was you didn’t know how good it would get for the two (five) of you. 

You’d look back, let go, lose this part of things. Take your baby sister and leave.

You’d still be you, but you'd be free.

taglist: @miles-42-morales @indigopearl96 @marvelwomenarehot0 @vintagelotus345 @queen-simone @uronlymiaa @namuranguinhos @femlesbianbarbie @femme-historian @vikaswife @powderpinkandsweeet @drgnflyteabox @icespiceluva @theirlaliengirl @supermanwifey @nkeyaaa @batmanslittlelover @strawberrykidneystone @shimmerstraps

© hcneymooners

[berlioz-the-kitten]

Petri Dishes and Plastic Wrap

ACT ONE: CLEAN CUTS

Next

Brian Moser/Reader

Summary: Y/N was brought in for a psychological profile contract after the Ice Truck Killer case starts gaining momentum and the department begins to feel the pressure. She reviews old case files, offers insight, and quietly builds profiles. What no one knows? Y/N used to work at a private sanitarium in Georgia—one that got shut down after multiple patient abuse reports. She even kept a journal on a particular patient who had dissociative tendencies, surgical skill, and a fixation on reconstructing human bodies like art. The file? It got buried. Now in Miami, Y/N starts receiving odd notes—sketches of bodies in glass boxes, neatly preserved. No threats. Just… acknowledgments. And when she meets Rudy Cooper, the charming prosthetics specialist brought in to consult on a limb pattern, she gets the feeling she’s being studied.

TW: Psychological trauma references, Medical institutional abuse (implied), Body horror/gore (clinical context), Blood imagery, Stalking/psychological manipulation (emerging), Power imbalance/grooming dynamics (seeded), Emotional numbness/disassociation, Canon is a sandbox.

The elevator doors slid open with a sterile and pitching ping!, and Dr. Y/N Morrissey stepped out like she’d been summoned by order, not invitation. 

Miami Metro was cooler than expected—she’d braced for that signature Florida heat to press in around her like damp gauze, but the precinct’s air conditioning hummed a steady chill through the corridors. Still, the scent of too much coffee, simmering egos and overripe evidence rooms lingered beneath the sterile polish.

She walked with precision, heels soundless against the old tile. A folder rested neatly in the crook of her arm, her ID clipped in perfect alignment to her lapel. Her suit was slate grey, sharply tailored, a color too subdued for Miami. Her eyes were the only thing sharper—narrowed, not in judgment, but calculation. She was already dissecting the layout. Already filing away the badge-to-detective ratio, the postures, the voices, the tension.

She could feel it in the air. The fray at the seams.

The Ice Truck Killer case had everyone taut as piano wire. Hallway laughter died when she passed, and she caught the sidelong glances—the quiet assessments from men who didn’t know how to place her. She didn’t smile. Didn’t offer a handshake unless one was extended first. Dr. Morrissey didn’t believe in unnecessary contact. She believed in patterns. In pathology. In what the blood said when everything else lied.

She was escorted to the small office space they’d carved out for her. Temporary, windowless, unremarkable. Fine. She preferred her space like she preferred her subjects: quiet, clinical, and undisturbed.

Her first file was already waiting on the desk. She set her folder down beside it, unbuttoned her jacket, and sat.

The photo on the top page was a torso.

Just a torso.

Y/N exhaled slowly, her breath steady and unsentimental. Then she pulled a black pen from her breast pocket, flipped open her notebook, and began to write.

She didn’t flinch at the image. She didn’t recoil from the bloodless seams. She respected the work.

The files were a mess—coffee-stained in places, pages smudged with fingerprints that told their own story. Y/N laid them out like specimens across her desk, arranging them by date, by dismemberment pattern, by level of emotional detachment. She wore gloves, not out of squeamishness, but because she didn’t like leaving residue behind.

The photos were clinical—light-drenched and sharp—but the evidence spoke louder than the framing. Skin peeled like fruit. Limbs severed with an almost reverent precision. She took a slow breath, eyes scanning the incision sites, the angles. Not rushed. Not angry. There was care in the butchery.

She wrote in looping cursive—no shorthand, no dictation. She liked the weight of ink, the permanence of handwriting.

Subject demonstrates textbook detachment—no sexual motive, no frenzy. This is surgical. Possibly even aesthetic. The blood loss is almost incidental, more a symptom than a feature. In fact, he seems to hate mess.

A beat. She tilted her head, examining a photo of a hand—fingers spread, the skin pale and scrubbed. The nails were cleaned. Clipped.

This one’s not about death. It’s about presentation.

The blood, when it appeared in the files, was sparse. More like punctuation than language. But she didn’t mind it. She never had.

There’d been a time—before the licenses and the clean coats—when she’d sat in dark rooms and watched surgeries for the rhythm of it. The ritual. She remembered one in particular, a facial reconstruction after a car crash, the way the surgeon spoke softly to no one in particular as he moved the scalpel like a painter.

Y/N hadn't flinched then either. Just watched. Just listened. Just learned.

Now, years later, she traced that same calm into her reports. No reactions. No moral verdicts. Only precision.

If anything, it fascinated her—how someone could be so deeply methodical in their violence. Almost... respectful.

It wasn’t about the blood. It never had been.

She was always there early. That was the first thing Dexter noticed.

Dr. Morrissey arrived before most of the techs, before Batista’s morning café con leche, before Deb started stomping through the halls cursing at bureaucracy. She’d be at her desk already, flipping through crime scene photos with the same quiet concentration he reserved for microscope slides.

No music. No coffee. No wasted motion.

Dexter passed her door once and caught a glimpse of her posture—spine straight, shoulders still, hand steady as she annotated a victim photo. The body had been drained and arranged. Most people flinched. Most people grimaced. She… tilted her head.

He slowed in the hallway without meaning to. Watching her through the corner of his eye, the way you watch another predator circling unfamiliar territory. There was no revulsion in her expression. Not even curiosity. It was more like… reverence. Cold and meticulous. Like she understood that a kill could be clean. That it could mean something.

Dexter had met hundreds of professionals who claimed to “understand pathology.” But Dr. Y/N Morrissey felt it. He could sense it in the way she moved. The exactness of her margins. The way her eyes didn’t dart away from the photos like everyone else’s—they focused.

He made it a point to read one of her reports.

It was sterile, sure. But there were glimpses—lines that hummed with quiet insight, phrases that mirrored things Harry had taught him.

Subject exhibits pride in presentation. Murder, in this case, is not the objective—but rather, a means to an artistic end. The body is not defiled. It’s preserved.

Preserved. Dexter blinked at that. It wasn’t the word most people chose. But it was the word he might have.

From that moment on, he watched her more carefully. Slower movements. Softer steps. He didn’t want her to notice.

Because Dexter wasn’t sure if Y/N Morrissey was just a psychiatrist with a strong stomach—

—or if she was a scalpel herself. Sharp. Quiet. And meant for something specific.

It always came back to the red doors. That was how the memory started.

In her mind, the halls of Briarcliff Sanitarium were always too quiet. Too clean. The scent of industrial antiseptic coated the tongue like plastic wrap, and the lights flickered just enough to make you feel watched. Not haunted—observed. That was worse.

Patient #79 never screamed like the others. He was always polite. Always early to therapy sessions. He folded his hands in his lap like he was praying to some god of bone and sinew, and he smiled when he spoke about cartilage the way children spoke about dinosaurs—endlessly fascinated.

Y/N had been young. Too young. Just out of her residency. Eager. Curious. Controlled.

“Do you know,” Patient #79 said once, voice low and sweet, “that the human hand has 27 bones? But no one ever counts the tiny sesamoids near the thumb. They’re always forgotten.”

“Do you remember all your bones?” Y/N had asked him.

“Only the ones I’ve seen from the inside.”

She should’ve reported that. She did—technically. It got folded into the vague language of her early case notes. Obsessive behavior. Surgical fixation. Morbid fascinations. But as the weeks went on, her language changed. Became sharper. More focused. The lines blurred between analyst and archivist. Between observation and recording.

Her notebooks from that period were… precise. Too precise.

Subject shows increasing clarity in conceptual anatomy. Discussed desire to ‘see the hinge in a living jaw.’ Used the phrase ‘reconstruct the way God should have.’ Voice calm. No effective spikes.

Patient #79 never touched her. Never raised his voice. But he watched her while she wrote. Watched her pen stroke each word like it was being etched into stone. He’d grin softly when she turned pages.

“You write like it matters,” he said once. “Like someone will read it when I’m gone.”

Later—years later—when the reports of patient mistreatment came out, Briarcliff shuttered overnight. Records vanished. Doctor’s were either fired out of talks of misconduct. Nurses were just plain shitcanned without any prior warning. Wards were emptied in silence. Some patients were transferred. Some disappeared entirely.

Y/N packed her bags and didn’t look back.

Except—she kept one thing. One notebook. Labeled only with the number: #79.

Even now, in Miami, it sat buried in a box in her apartment closet. But some nights, when the casework made her fingers itch and the surgical photos mirrored old memories, she opened it.

And every time she did, she found something she didn’t remember writing.

A phrase. A sketch. A line marked in red ink instead of black.

And Patient #79���s voice, echoing low in her skull:

You were always meant to see me.

The first one came folded neatly into the pages of her latest case file.

At first, Y/N thought it was a misprint. The type of thing overworked interns slip in by mistake. But when she unfolded the page fully, the edges were smooth, the paper heavier than the department standard. Archival paper. Deliberate.

It was a sketch. Graphite, fine-lined, almost medical in its precision.

A human form—nude, hairless, arranged inside what appeared to be a glass box. Limbs slightly elevated with metal clasps. The lines were labeled meticulously: radius, clavicle, external oblique, orbicularis oculi.

The heart was still intact, she noted. Anatomically centered, outlined in red pencil.

No message. No name. Just an artist’s mark in the lower corner: a single 7 drawn through a 9.

She kept it. Not out of fear—out of... curiosity. It reminded her of something. Not exactly, but closely enough to make her chest ache in that old, quiet way she’d learned not to name.

Two days later, another one arrived.

This one was tucked beneath her windshield wiper after she finished lunch. Same style. Same paper. A male body this time. The skin had been rendered translucent to show muscle layers beneath. The ribs were numbered. The head was tilted up, mouth open as if mid-breath.

Still, no message. Still, no threat.

The third came by mail, addressed to her old university department. It was forwarded to her by a confused assistant who wrote, “Thought it was something anatomical you were expecting?”

It wasn’t. But it was. In its own way.

Each sketch grew more detailed. More intimate. The poses began to shift. One of them mirrored an old photograph she had of herself, taken during a seminar—head down, elbows resting on a table, fingers tented thoughtfully. The sketched figure’s body was opened from sternum to pelvis, as if that version of her had been dissected mid-thought.

Y/N stopped showing them to anyone. She stopped mentioning them altogether. Not because she was afraid.

But because the sketches were… beautiful.

Grotesque, yes. But deliberate. Thoughtful. Like someone had taken the time to know her—her mind, her observations, her exact lines of interest—and then made art for her to understand.

Every time she unfolded a new one, her breath hitched.

Every time, the same thought followed, unwelcome and slow:

He knows I’m watching. And he’s watching back.

The limb came in around noon.

Just the one—left arm, severed clean below the deltoid, preserved unnaturally well. No bloating, no insect activity. The skin was pale and drained, but the hand was positioned in what almost looked like a gesture. Not a struggle. Something else. Something closer to a pose.

Masuka cracked an inappropriate joke. Deb rolled her eyes and left the room. And then they called him in.

Rudy Cooper, Miami Metro’s favorite prosthetics specialist, stepped into the lab like he owned it—collared shirt rolled at the sleeves, tan from the sun, eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made people relax before they realized they were doing it. He shook hands easily, joked about how “weird” his job was to people outside the field, and then leaned over the severed limb like it was an old friend.

Y/N had been reviewing preliminary notes from the corner, but the moment he spoke, she looked up.

Something about the cadence. The tone. Too calm. Too comfortable.

Rudy didn't acknowledge her at first. Just knelt beside the table, gloved up, and began a gentle rotation of the wrist with his fingers, noting out loud the unnatural preservation, the almost surgical cut.

“This wasn’t rage,” he said softly. “This was... pride.”

Y/N straightened slightly. That word again. Pride. She’d used it in her own analysis days ago. In private.

He turned his head toward her then, mid-thought, eyes catching hers with startling ease. "You must be Dr. Morrissey."

Her spine didn’t stiffen. She didn’t let it. But her fingers curled just slightly on the folder in her lap.

“I’ve heard about you,” he went on. “You're the one who sees patterns other people miss.”

There was nothing flirtatious in his voice. Nothing overt. Just a friendly interest, wrapped in warmth like a welcome mat. But his gaze lingered a half-second too long.

She held it.

“You work in reconstruction,” she replied, voice even. “It makes sense you’d recognize the effort in deconstruction.”

He smiled.

Not widely. Just enough.

“That’s what I like about dismemberment,” he said, eyes drifting back to the arm. “You learn more about the maker than the victim.”

Her pulse ticked once behind her ribs.

Too familiar.

She didn’t remember his face, not entirely. But something behind his voice dragged old hospital lighting and red doors into her peripheral vision.

He brushed a fingertip over the lifeless knuckle of the ring finger, delicate and careful, like a sculptor admiring the turn of marble.

And when he looked up again, he didn’t blink.

“People forget how much beauty there is in structure,” he said. “But I know you don’t.”

Y/N didn’t reply.

She just watched him work. Noted the way his hands moved. Silent. Precise. Almost… reverent.

She didn’t trust him.

But she couldn’t look away.

It was late—one of those nights where the city hummed under neon sweat and the precinct lights buzzed like insects against glass. Most of the department had cleared out. Y/N remained, as usual. Her desk was a neat kingdom of order: files sorted by victim, her notes stacked in clean columns, and a steaming cup of tea cooling beside a half-finished anatomical sketch.

She didn’t expect company.

The knock on the doorframe was light, too casual to be official. When she looked up, Rudy stood there with a sheepish smile and a takeaway container in hand.

“Thought you might forget to eat,” he said. “Figured I'd bribe you with dumplings.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away. She rarely did. But after a second, she gestured to the empty chair across from her. “One bribe. Then you go.”

He laughed like she was joking.

He didn’t leave.

They talked, loosely—about the latest body, about muscle tension in postmortem joints, about tendon slicing angles. It was easy, unsettlingly so. And just when the conversation began to settle into a lull, Rudy glanced at the sketch in front of her. A study of a dissected knee, incomplete.

“You always drew them like that at Briarcliff,” he said, almost offhand.

The pen in her hand paused mid-stroke.

Silence fell between them—not awkward, but sharp. Surgical.

She didn’t look up. Not right away. “Excuse me?”

Rudy leaned back slightly, his voice still smooth, still warm. “It was the same angle. Three-quarters turned. Ligament spread. Always the same. You sketched during sessions. They said it helped you focus.”

Her heart beat once, loud in her throat. She set the pen down with care.

He met her eyes then—really met them—and there was something behind his gaze that wasn’t there a moment ago. A depth. A knowing.

“They were good drawings,” he said gently. “Accurate. Clinical. But I liked them because they were... quiet. Like you were.”

Y/N's mouth felt dry. Her fingers curled slightly against the edge of the desk, a barely-there tremor tapping through her control.

He remembered.

Patient #79’s voice echoed like a blade pulled from sheath: You write like it matters.

“You were in group?” she asked, softly. Too softly.

“I wasn’t a patient,” Rudy said with a half-smile. “I was just... around.”

But they both knew that wasn’t the truth. Not really.

He rose, slow and graceful, collecting the empty container with a casual ease that felt rehearsed.

“Same eyes,” he murmured before leaving. “You haven’t changed them. That’s rare.”

And then he was gone.

Y/N didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Her tea had gone cold.

The drawing on her desk—she realized—wasn't of a knee anymore. Not really. Not anatomically.

It was of a man posed like he was about to kneel.

[ask-caprinacorn-the-diva]

I just want you to know that you are loved both as Colt and Caprina, and I want you to be more confident about the real you.

With that being said, you mentioned something about your team in your other town, where you moved from, and the villains you fought there too. May we know more about them?

Caprina: I'm back, darling! And while I appreciate your words, for the moment I'll continue being Caprina unless said otherwise (like if my uniform was in the wash). You viewers are so sweet: what would I do without you?

Anyways, I've already talked about the villains I face, but I haven't mentioned my team back home: and here they are! Together, we're the Midnight Pack! While not all of us are from Texas, we're apart of several teams across America: yes, surprise surprise, the Power Heroes aren't the only heroes fighting bad guys at night. There's several hundred groups protecting the world, but I'm not here to talk about them. My team is what I'm here to tell!

Leon: genderfluid (she/he/they)

Leon is my best friend (in Texas, dont worry Kitsu). Their real name is Savannah and she's from Minnesota: I met him playing video games and we became even closer when we found out we're working together! Leon was born without his right arm, but he has the ability to create Plasma Blades and Holograms so she can create a firey prosthetic in battle! Like me, Savannah also crossdresses, but it's mainly due to keep her secret identity secret. Since my departure for my foreign exchange program, he's taken charge (since I was the leader).

Odette: Abrosexual (she/her)

She's the one who looks like a beautiful ballerina: and her beauty isn’t all that's there for her! Her real name is Opheila and she's from Paris: not Paris, France but Paris, Kentucky. Despite being born without her leg, Odette is one of the most graceful dancers I've ever seen. Her moves and her feathers are great when distracting others and capturing villains! She's not as active as the rest, as she also has a condition called Vasovagal Syncope, which leads her to faint: she's normally back at HQ helping us out but when she's on duty, she's unstoppable.

Rapido: Straight (he/him)

Rapido reminds me a lot of Catboy: and for good reason. Like a certain blue hedgehog he's obsessed with, Rapido has super speed and can be on the other side of tbe globe in less than a second. I guess he gets all his energy from being from Florida, but I'm not the first whose jokingly called him a "soon to be Florida man". He, like Catboy, can get very overconfident in his abilities and it can lead him to ignore other's assistance, but he's learning to reach out for help nowadays. In the daytime, he's Rodrigo and I'm wondering how much energy drinks this kid drinks from how hyperactive he can get.

Pupscout: aro-ace (he/they)

The youngest AND newest of the gang, Pupscout isn't to be brushed aside. Despite being called Percy and being cute as a button, his daytime form is the definition of emo. At first, he was reluctant to help out during missions, and tried quitting a few times, but he found his purpose for the team: fetching information about what's happening and where villains are. Sure, he's not usually on the ground, but they're able to bark out information when needed. He also has a killer sense of smell, which they claim they picked it up back in Wyoming.

Rhinostone: asexual (he/him)

The oldest of the group, Rhi is the textbook definition of "gentle giant". Coming from Chicago, Rhi knows a thing or two of protecting others (as he has four younger siblings). He has superstrength, no doubt (like a particular gecko or armadillo), but he wouldn't hurt a fly. He's got the biggest heart out of everyone and he goes to the extra mile to help a fellow teammate. His real name is Tucker, and he's deaf, but we've found alternatives to make sure he's included in the team and being alerted of danger.

Lastly Sheriff Betta: lesbian (she/her)

The only one of us whose non-human, Betta/Betty is from the Atlantic Ocean but surprisingly has a lot of experience of wrangling bad guys in the sea, known for riding her sea-horse and cleaning up the ocean floors from "the wrongs of humanity". At first, she was hesitant of befriending us, because of past trauma from reckless humans, but she eventually learned not all humans are trash-monsters.

[floridaboiler]

What Is The Main Ingredient of WD-40?

Before you read to the end, does anybody know what the main ingredient of WD-40?

No Cheating.....

WD-40 ~ Who knew!

I had a neighbour who bought a new pickup.

I got up very early one Sunday morning and saw that someone had spray

painted red all around the sides of this beige truck (for some unknown

reason).

I went over, woke him up, and told him the bad news.

He was very upset and was trying to figure out what to do ....

probably nothing until Monday morning, since nothing was open.

Another neighbour came out and told him to get his WD-40 and clean it off.

It removed the unwanted paint beautifully and did not harm his paint

job that was on the truck. I was impressed!

WD-40 who knew?

"Water Displacement #40".

The product began from a search for a rust preventative solvent and

degreaser to protect missile parts.

WD-40 was created in 1953, by three technicians at the San Diego

Rocket Chemical Company.

Its name comes from the project that was to find a 'Water

Displacement' Compound.

They were finally successful for a formulation, with their fortieth

attempt, thus WD-40. The 'Convair Company' bought it in bulk to

protect their atlas missile parts.

Ken East (one of the original founders) says there is nothing in WD-40

that would hurt you.

When you read the 'shower door' part, try it. It's the first thing

that has ever cleaned that spotty shower door. If yours is plastic,

it works just as well as on glass. It's a miracle!

Then try it on your stove-top.

It's now shinier than it's ever been.

You'll be amazed.

WD-40 Uses:

1. Protects silver from tarnishing.

2. Removes road tar and grime from cars.

3. Cleans and lubricates guitar strings.

4. Gives floor that 'just-waxed' sheen without making them slippery.

5. Keeps the flies off of Cows, Horses, and other Farm Critters.

6. Restores and cleans chalkboards.

7. Removes lipstick stains.

8. Loosens stubborn zippers.

9. Untangles jewellery chains.

10. Removes stains from stainless steel sinks.

11. Removes dirt and grime from the barbecue grill.

12. Keeps ceramic/terracotta garden pots from oxidising.

13. Removes tomato stains from clothing.

14. Keeps glass shower doors free of water spots.

15. Camouflages scratches in ceramic and marble floors.

16. Keeps scissors working smoothly.

17. Lubricates noisy door hinges on both home and vehicles doors.

18. It removes that nasty tar and scuff marks from the kitchen

flooring. It doesn't seem to harm the finish and you won't have to

scrub nearly as hard to get them off. Just remember to open some

windows if you have a lot of marks.

19. Remove those nasty bug guts that will eat away the finish

on your car if not removed quickly!

20. Gives a children's playground gym slide a shine for a super fast slide.

21. Lubricates gearshift and mower deck lever for ease of handling on

riding mowers.

22. Rids kids rocking chair and swings of squeaky noises.

23. Lubricates tracks in sticking home windows and makes them easier to open.

24. Spraying an umbrella stem makes it easier to open and close.

25. Restores and cleans padded leather dashboards in vehicles, as well

as vinyl bumpers.

26. Restores and cleans roof racks on vehicles.

27. Lubricates and stops squeaks in electric fans.

28. Lubricates wheel sprockets on tricycles, wagons and bicycles for

easy handling.

29. Lubricates fan belts on washers and dryers and keeps them running smoothly.

30. Keeps rust from forming on saws and saw blades, and other tools.

31. Removes grease splatters from stove-tops.

32. Keeps bathroom mirror from fogging.

33. Lubricates prosthetic limbs.

34. Keeps pigeons off the balcony (they hate the smell).

35. Removes all traces of duct tape.

36. Folks even spray it on their arms, hands, and knees to relieve

arthritis pain.

37. Florida 's favourite use is: 'cleans and removes love bugs from

grills and bumpers.'

38. The favourite use in the state of New York , it protects the Statue

of Liberty from the elements.

39. WD-40 attracts fish. Spray a little on live bait or lures and you

will be catching the big one in no time. Also, it's a lot cheaper than

the chemical attractants that are made for just that purpose. Keep

in mind though, using some chemical laced baits or lures for fishing

are not allowed in some states.

40. Use it for fire ant bites. It takes the sting away immediately and

stops the itch.

41. It is great for removing crayon from walls. Spray it on the marks

and wipe with a clean rag.

42. Also, if you've discovered that your teenage daughter has washed

and dried a tube of lipstick with a load of laundry, saturate the

lipstick spots with WD-40 and rewash. Presto! The lipstick is gone!

43. If you spray it inside a wet distributor cap, it will displace the

moisture, allowing the engine to start.

My discovery, Ants don't like it..................

P.S.

As for that Basic, Main Ingredient.......

Well.... it's FISH OIL....

Now This Is Definitely Worth SHARING!!

[sleepdeprivedsimp234]

ׂ╰┈➤ Disability(?) headcanons for the states (based on this post 👍, I’m mainly handing over the physical disability hc’s) ✮⋆˙

(TW: war, fires, and abuse mentions/implications)

Texas is blind in one eye (injury from Mexico during the Texas Revolution), he has asthma, and is deaf in one ear (same side as his blind eye, it’s from an explosion during the Civil War)

Michigan is hard of hearing (not my hc, I’ve just seen it around and i think it’s a good hc! I’m not exactly sure how it happened)

Louisiana is missing half an arm (his forearm, and he has a prosthetic) and has some really bad burn scars along the right side of his body (mainly torso, shoulder, part of his thigh, a bit of his neck, and what’s left of his right arm, this all happened during the one of the fires of New Orleans. He had gotten trapped when saving people), and the scars still sometimes give him issues to this day (mainly pain and itchiness)

Florida has a prosthetic leg (knee and down, anyone wanna guess how that happened?)

New York uses crutches sometimes because he has some issues with his legs and hips (due to injuries from Great Britain before the American Revolution). He doesn’t use them all the time, just on days when he’s hurting really bad. He also has a softer, more raspy voice due to a neck/throat injury (it hurts for him to be loud, guess who’s the reason for the injury?).

Washington (state) has REALLY bad vision

Gov has chronic migraines and back pain (due to constantly working, as well as some war injuries)

I believe this is @mittenstroll ‘s headcanon, South Dakota uses a wheel chair (possible injury from something that left him paralyzed from the waist down maybe?)

Massachusetts has really bad back pain and is deaf in one ear (both due to war injuries, though I haven’t decided which war/wars he got them from)

Kentucky and Colorado both have asthma

West Virginia is diabetic

Mississippi has a prosthetic leg (whole leg, lost it in an explosion (I think I wrote about how it happened on Wattpad))

Kentucky is hard of hearing (constantly working on cars, especially loud cars, with a Bluetooth speaker turned to its max volume, will do that)

Pennsylvania should really invest in a pair of glasses.

^So should Virginia.

Georgia has narcolepsy

Alaska has hypersomnia

Wyoming is missing an entire leg (he was sitting around at Yellowstone waiting for a tourist to fuck around and find out via the bison, and didn’t notice the angry bison approaching him. I’ll leave the rest to the imagination.

Montana has scoliosis

Feel free to tell me what y’all think of these headcanons, and as always, feel free to add on/add your own!

[phazepheonix]

Is the Mer center a hotspot for disabled parties like how Clearwater Marine Aquarium was? Where people of different disabilities go to check out mers that have similar disabilities to them?

(Context: am a blind person who adores Winter the Dolphin as a kid)

I'd like to think so, George is probably the winter of this au because of the prosthetic dorsal fin he is given.

I'd say about 80% of the mers at the florida sanctuary are physically disabled and unfit for release, the other 20% are a mix of failed releases, head trauma resulting in brain damage, and mers born in captivity that could not be trained for release. The last reason is rare as the parents/ family usually teach them for the best shot outside of the sanctuary, for a good chance at life, sometimes however they just don't bother.

The sanctuary directors anticipated there would be a large disabled demographic due to the nature of the sanctuary so during the renovation they had made it as disabled friendly as possible. Wheelchair bays, ramps, braille on the information signs, sensory rooms, extra benches etc

Please let me know if I get anything incorrect, I'm not disabled and wouldn't want to upset or spread false information

[livielizardcos]

Uhh long time no post. But it’s that time of year again soo.. new cosplay reveal!!

Marcille!! Yeah baby!!!! I’ve been cracking out this costume pretty consistently since February. Finished her about 2 months ago (April 2025) but didn’t quite get a chance to get any photos as her and do a wear test until now (Florida weather and job things getting in the way per usual)

Got a few things I’m gonna update before I take her to the con (the belts need some desperate remaking). But I will be wearing her to Metrocon for those that care..

Best investment for this cosplay were these prosthetic elf ears. I’m gonna get so much wear out of these bad boys: Marcille, Frieren, any outfits for ren fest ever.. They’re so much comfier to wear with a wig compared to those ear cuff ones I had before.

Fun fact almost everything for this costume (for the fabric) was thrifted! The dress and cape were made using bedsheets and pillowcases from Goodwill. I found the shoes at Goodwill as well. The linen pants were found at a local thrift, I just hemmed them and added an elastic channel at the bottom. The most expensive part of this costume was the wig, which is also the longest wig I’ve ever worn. I put so many hours into crimping and treating this wig before styling to keep it tangle free and so far it has stood up to the test!

Might drop a process post on this costume, but honestly I don’t know that I will since it was made using a premade pattern and didn’t really require me to make up anything like Frieren did. But if you have any questions about the process I can answer as well.

🪡 Dress and cape made using patterns by CosplayAlice/Alice in Cosplayland

💇‍♀️ Wig from Kasou Wig, styled by me

🧝‍♀️ Elf ears from Aradani Studios

[theywhoshantbenamed]

do you mind headcannon dumping everything you have onto me

idc if I’ve already heard it from you before, give me all your silly ideas about ships and characters and literally any aus you’ve come up with

California and Alaska bleed gold also they have nicknames for each other Big Bear and Little Bear after the Ursa Major and Minor constellations

New York is a pigeon fancier and has six pet rats

Original 13 + Rhode Island have large canines and claw-like nails

Not really a headcanon but I feel like I flip flop between New Jersey actually having horns and a tail or them just being accessories

Massachusetts has a prosthetic leg that he definitely has used to bonk his fellow states from time to time

Florida has serious shark teeth no one can take that from me

Alabama and Florida siblings btw. If you even care

TEXAS AND NEW MEXICO BEING COUSINS IS IMMENSELY FUNNY TO ME “hey New Mex isn’t that guy your cousin” “I don’t know him”

Georgia is the actual epitome of having fat ass and mental issues also his hypersomnia is special to me

Kentucky and Indiana as a duo are dangerous because they’re both incredibly sweet individuals with the best intentions. It’s prolly because of Ben’s portrayal but they’re the same font to me

Texas is closeted as hell but the closet is made of cling wrap. Could be making out with a guy and think “but I’m not gay I just like kissing this guy”

Btw New Jersey is ftm no one can take that from me

Actually speaking of which my California is intersex

Maryland is also ftm and uses she/her pronouns

Some rarepairs that I think are neat:

Satanic Temple/Gov - friends with benefits

Satanic Temple/IDC - “dam Gov that’s your ex!?”

Rhode Island/Hawaii - one of those ships where you throw darts at a wall and it just sticks

California/Kentucky -they should’ve gone on a date to hillbilly festival :(

Kentucky/Maine - i really really need to draw and write them more often 😭

Connecticut/Nevada - bougie ass couple fr

Georgia/Florida/Louisiana - floui is common but Georgia makes it rare. Georgia is the mellow to their chaos duo

Washington/New York - apple wars, what can I say /ref

New York/Rhode Island - does anyone else think this would be so funny?? 😐 someone get them away from each other

Alaska/Minnesota - bear for bear ship

California/Illinois/New York - this ship rocks actually

Therianthrope AU:

Ohio is a white tailed deer who loves to set fire to the ranger station Michigan is often in

He definitely does not do it for attention at all no sir

The Dakotas in this AU are coyotes who left their mothers pack but have a sort of close bond to Minnesota, who’s also a park ranger in this AU

The national park in this AU leans toward made up generic national park but is kinda sorta based off of Cuyahoga Valley NP

California is a ground squirrel in this one cause I think it’s funny

I think I drew Indiana as a cardinal and an otter at one point but these days I kinda feel weasel. Either way, mustelid

That’s about everything I could think of for now I’ll add more if I think of them

[shallowbreaths]

This is Mary Vincent, she is the biggest badass alive! At 15 she was attacked, brutal raped, hit in the head with a hammer, she had her arms hacked off with a hatchet, and was then thrown off a cliff by the side of the freeway to die. Her survival story is the shit! She says she heard a voice telling her to keep moving or else others would die, so without arms she managed to pack mud into the wounds so she wouldn’t bleed to death, and then she proceeded to scale the cliff with no arms!! She was completely naked, she had severe head trauma, no arms, and they say she had lost 50% of the blood in her body. After scaling the cliff (which she says took her most of a day), she then walked 3 miles before seeing a car with two men that slowed down, but after getting a good look at her they sped off. To which this badass woman said, “I looked terrifying, I don’t hold it against them at all.” Needless to say, she survived. Before allowing herself to even pass out though, she demanded a sketch artist and provided such detail that the monster’s friend saw it on the news and immediately knew it was him and turned him in. Then she testified against the man, and he somehow managed to whisper to her, “if it takes me the rest of my life I’m going to finish what I started.” Oh yeah, btw, it was HIM that released that detail!

Her family could only talk about how it effected them, it was as if they didn’t realize that it was effecting her too. So she was homeless for a while and she obviously had trouble making and maintaining any meaningful relationships. Her attacker got charged with a long list of crimes and got the maximum sentence at the time…. 14 years! He was released for good behavior after 8!!!!

He then tried to sue her after his release, (as one does after brutally raping someone and then cutting their arms off), but the court threw it out. He then moved to Florida where he was an “upstanding member of the community, and great neighbor.” His neighbors said things like, “of course we didn’t like what he’d done, but life goes on.” Yuck! I know this is shocking, but the asshole killed again and a witness saw it. The police arrived at his house and he was covered in blood still. He tried telling some BS story. The woman he killed (a mother of 3) wasn’t highly thought of because she was a sex worker, that’s one reason why they are so often killed, it’s easier to get away with. SOOOO, Florida asked Mary if she’d face the monster again in order to testify to the man’s nature. This badass said, “Hell yes” and flew down. I really hope she whispered to him, “I’m here to finish what I started.” He was convicted again and put on death row. Unfortunately, God got him with cancer before Florida got to finish his story.

This isn’t about him though, he was a disgusting creep that doesn’t deserve a name. This is about Mary fucking Vincent, the biggest badass of all time. Because of this story, there are now laws instituting mandatory life sentences for certain violent crimes. This is about a woman who uses her experience to help teenagers who are sexually assaulted, even though she STILL suffers from such terrible nightmares that she has woken up trying to escape with such violence that she has literally broken bones doing it several times. This is about the woman who went on to have two sons who she says gave a clear and definite reason to keep going. This is about a girl who at 15 says she couldn’t draw a straight line but grew up to be an artist with no arms, who fashions her own custom prosthetics in order to do the things she wants to do.

I’ve never met this woman, but she is one of my heroes! She is magnificent. Fuck that loser who wound up rotting in a cell alone, it could have been a car crash or a tree falling that caused that damage, he is a gross and barely necessary tool that lead to forging something truly amazing. What she has done, overcome, and made from the pieces is so fucking incredible that she should inspire us all. She was NOT disposable, but how easily she could have been. All she had to do was close her eyes at the bottom of that cliff and go to sleep. I’ll bet she could have quit on herself a million times over the years since 1978, but Mary Vincent doesn’t quit. She took the unimaginable and turned it into art. She IS art!

In Mary’s own words, “This is the third phase of my life since that awful day. I went from victim, to survivor, to artist.” Hell yeah you did Mary!

[likelyhyperventilating]

angsty and fluffy Florida headcanons

(by alligator guy and rad sunflower dude)

(florida hat divider made by @alaskashigh)

Had his left leg bitten off during an alligator accident and it never grew back right so he uses a prosthetic. Sometimes will throw his prosthetic leg at states whenever he's bored or they get on his nerves.

Has a bunch of tattoos. Big tattoo on his back, one full sleeve on left arm, couple on his ankles and feet, few on his chest and ribs, couple on his right arm, one behind his ear, and one on his lower back. Dude is covered head to toe. (His favorites being the ones Loui and Cal tattooed on him)

Sharp as fuck teeth. No joke those things are DEADLY. Also has a gap tooth that he likes to use to shoot water at the states. [It drives everyone nuts]

Can drink his oceans water and be completely okay.

During hurricanes he has to be monitored since he's died during them a bunch. He coughs up salt water, his lungs will get filled up, blood gets replaced with salt water, etc. He once died 12 times in one sitting from a really bad hurricane. It's not fun and he hates it.

Very attached to Loui. When Spain left him with Gov he was thrown into a new scary world and unsure of what to do/where to go. Running into Louisiana was pure fate in his eyes. He wouldn't be the same if he hadn't met him.

He has his own language with Louisiana. The two of them made it centuries ago when they couldn't speak to each other and ended up adding to it more and more. Louisiana and Florida are fluent in it and like to confuse people by talking to each other in it. (I've been thinking about making their actual code or language type thing. if i do i'll make a post about it)

Once bit a walmart employee during a weekly grocery run with a few other states. he’s banned from that walmart now. (you can’t ban him. he will come back no matter what)

His room is FILLED with plushies. He's got plushies from all sorts of places and people laying about. Sitting on his bed, thrown on the floor, up on his desks/shelves, everywhere. Lots of them are from Louisiana and California, some from other south states, and even one from Gov as a gift when he was sick. His favorite is his oldest plushie, one he's been carrying around since he was a territory

[oxalis-iris]

finally finished my courier oc's reference! took a while because i was very indecisive with colors but i think im happy with this :)

i'll write down his backstory under the read more

Content warning for sensitive topics: Sexual Abuse, Slavery

Past Life

Oxalis was born in Florida to his parents where he lived a peaceful life. He grew up loving technology and robots and being fond of the color yellow. It wasn't until his 6th birthday when he was taken away to become a slave, sold away by his parents, that his life took a turn for the worst.

The rest of his early life was hell, being abused physically mentally and sexually for most of it. He learnt to play nice and follow orders to lessen the abuse, but the experience festered a deep hatred for his parents and an unsatiable urge to be violent.

He managed to escape at 15, running away and working odd jobs to survive. After escaping, he named himself Oxalis after the common wood sorrels because he was fond of the yellow flowers. When he was 20 he worked as a courier, and managed to find his way back to Florida. When he returned to his home, he shot both his parents dead and left to deliver his next package.

He continued to work as a courier for 13 years, exploring every nook and cranny of America before being sent off with the Platinum Chip. Little did he know that it would be the last proper package he sent as a courier...

The Mojave Wasteland

After being dug out of the grave by Victor, Oxalis gave himself a new name. Liu, the mandarin number for six. The sixth courier.

He went around the Mojave, determined to find Benny and kill him. However, he couldn't resist helping others in need and so it took him quite a while to reach the Strip. Not out of neglect of his mission for revenge, but rather to help and nurture those in the wasteland who were in need.

When he finally arrived at the Strip and entered the Tops, he manipulated Swank into helping him get revenge on Benny and letting him search his suite, which led to his fateful encounter with Yes Man.

Feeling bad for the securitron forced into a position similar like Liu had suffered before, he decided to follow Yes Man's plans to take over the Strip, killing Benny for his revenge before killing House as well for the plans.

Of course, he wouldn't let the legion live. They represent the people he hated the most. So he went in with Boone to kill everyone at the Fort, including Caesar.

At the battle of Hoover Dam, he lost both his legs but managed to replace them with prosthetics.

The rest of his story? Maybe I'll write more of it someday!

[draconiselegy]

It is nearly 22:00. My coursework rots beside me like an uneaten offering, and instead of revising Old Norse syntax I am once again Googling how to falsify a Florida work visa.

Not for crime. For love.

I do not want to work at Universal Studios Orlando. I must. If I am to see him daily—Hiccup, my sun, my spectral boy in pleather and prosthetics—I must embed myself in the ecosystem. I will be a janitor. A popcorn vendor. I will wear the Gru costume if I must.

Just let me near him.

– Yours in bureaucratic despair and dragons, Arden

[tastytoastz]

Hi Toast, I hope you’re doing well!

I’ve been enjoying your fics so much (especially with how things ended in canon).

I saw a post a while ago (I don’t know if it was from you or someone else but it was before Fitpac was official) that was talking about having Ramón and Richas in a Parent Trap style situation in an attempt to bring Fit and Pac together.

Do you have any headcanons about what that kind of au could look like?

I could see Ramón and Richas looking almost identical (even though I don’t imagine them as identical in other aus) and maybe finding out that their parents were together before a big misunderstanding (I don’t think Fitpac could have been married nor would they actually have biological twins, I always felt that it was a bit fucked up for the parents to divorce and move to different continents and not tell their kids that they are a twin).

But I do think that the parent trap shenanigans fit Richas and Ramón so well down to the summer camp run by El Quackity and Quackity (who would try sending Chayanne to the isolation cabin multiple times) with the other eggs as campers (who may or may not get involved in helping plan this plot). The camp could be a desert island themed survival camp based in Florida (most central location for people from the US, Mexico, France, Brazil to feasibly send their kids, particularly if the parents are already friends with the Quackities).

I could see Fit as a famous fight choreographer/stuntman (hence he would live in California) and in a weird relationship with Spreen (he could fit the Meredith character as he is not a kid person and would be after the money and it would be cathartic for Ramón and Richas to do the pranks on him later on haha).

Pac would be an inventor with multiple parents living in Brazil with the other members of the Favela Five, and Ramón would totally nerd over the inventions when he goes undercover as Richas (but he would have to hide the nerding out bc Richas would not be as into the mechanics as Ramón is).

It could be an example of right person wrong time for them; maybe Fit and Pac met at the camp as camp counsellors in university and Ramón and Richas come across a old picture of them being all couple-like in one of the old camp albums!

With the knowledge that their parents are not currently happy and getting the tea from Phil (who has been one of the head counsellers at the camp for ages) they plot to learn more about each others lives and do the nesserary disguises (for example they both would have to wear pants the whole time to hide the fact that their legs are different if Richas has a prosthetic leg in this universe) and switch with each other so that they would have to be un-switched eventually. I could see this au as primarily the idea of Ramón and Richas, but I love the idea of the other campers/counsellers (who are friends with Fit and Pac) helping them plan out this/lie for them bc they also want Fit and Pac to get back together haha

Anyways sorry for the long post, I felt bad for asking you for any headcanons relating to this without offering some ideas of my own haha

Hope you have a great day,

@tilin-forever

Hello!!! Good! I hope you're doing well as well!! :D

This might be a bit of a disepointing answer....But I have never seen the parent trap 😬 I legit know next to nothing about that movie lmao, so thinking up headcannons for an AU based on it is a bit hard XD

Sounds like there would be a lot of funny shenanigans especially if Philza starts to like, give Ramon and Richas ideas and hints about stuff. Like the always wearing pant's thing, like it gets overly hot and Richas/Ramon has to just keep saying he's fine and 100% dosen't have to change to shorts while they are pretty much burning up. Or Ramon getting stuck having to paint something and not knowing how do that while Richas is trying to make a machine without it blowing up in his face.

I hope you have an amazing day as well!!! <3

[frogsonalotusleaf]

Kaibaman, Ally of Justice

Seto Kaiba (formerly Seto Hekigan)

“A villain like you could never defeat a hero like me.”

Quirk: Dragon

Can transform from white wings & a tail to a full dragon form to a dragon with 3 heads. The entire process is very painful (and ruins his clothes) so he rarely uses it & rather fight using his self-made support gear. After being injected with Trigger, his quirk permanently changed to only two stages: the first being translucent wings of a dragon & long silver tail and the second being a silver 3-headed dragon with purple blood visibly running through its veins (Blue Eyes Ultimate Spirit Dragon)

Occupation: Hero, CEO of Kaiba Corp (hero support company) (current status unknown)

Age: 21

Male (He/Him)

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Birthday: October 25th

Languages: Japanese & English

Height: 6 ft 1 inch

Eye color: Blue

Hair color: Brown

Scars: 2 on his back (where his wings come out) & one on his tail bone (where his tail comes out)

Other: Slim but muscular, uses hydrogel injections (at least until the right woman comes along), prosthetic right arm, prosthetic left leg, robotic right eye

Japanese VA: Kenjiro Tsuda

English VA: Eric Stuart

History:

After both of their parents died, Seto & his younger brother Mokuba grew up in an orphanage.

He developed his quirk at age 4 after several days of severe pain in his back, large white dragon wings & a long white tail bursting from his body. As days went on, his body completely transformed into a Blue Eyes White Dragon then a Blue Eyes Ultimate Dragon (similar to his previous form, but with 3 heads.) Seto eventually turned back into his human form.

At age 12, he played against Gozaburo Kaiba in a game of chess & won, the man adopting both brothers.

Their new father forced Seto into a rigorously accelerated school program, studying several subjects including economics, social studies, foreign language (English), hero theory, business acumen, and corporate management proficiency, wanting the boy to become the heir to his company Kaiba Corp. Seto complied, wanting to secure a better life for his little brother.

After realizing his father made weapons of mass discussion & sold them to villains, Seto decided to take over Kaiba Corp and did so with his & Mokuba’s shares of the company. He refocused the company on hero support equipment, collaborating with Schroeder Corp. in Germany & Industrial Illustrations in America.

Despite being highly recommended for the UA hero track, he placed second in the entrance exam. He spent his entire UA school life trying to outrank his rival, Yugi Muto, but still graduated as second in his class.

Along with running successful Kaiba Corp branches in both Tokyo, Japan & Miami, Florida, Seto’s goals remained the same after graduating: surpassing Yugi in the Japanese hero rankings &, eventually, becoming the number one hero of the world.

Kaiba soon realized that he couldn’t just save people-ranking higher more so was dependent on popularity. Seto reluctantly saw that his attitude made him unlikeable by many people & was stagnating his chances of being ranked higher.

Switching gears successfully, he took on the hero name of ‘Kaibaman’ & took inspiration from the Sentai genre with his personality when dawning his hero outfit, gaining him thousands of fans. He climbed up the ranks, but has yet to surpass his high school rival nor become the number one hero in the world.

Did stage shows & other kid-focused events for free, wanting to be an inspiration of justice & hope for children.

Update: After being injected with Trigger & causing damages to nearby buildings & injuring civilians, along with top heroes reporting his harassment of one of Endeavor’s employees, Seto’s hero license was revoked by The Hero Commission, a restraining order was enacted against him from that individual, & he lost custody of his little brother, Mokuba.

With his long-time goal of being the top hero destroyed, the loss of his brother, & his company tanking fast, Kaiba searches for what to do next…

Misc:

Seto isn’t looking for marriage quite yet, but he will go on dates if he thinks it will benefit him in any way.

Likes sex to relieve stress. Uncircumcised. Favorite position is reverse cowgirl.

Reference pics:

[sunpaintedsea]

[ … ] ❀ you’re not from around here , are you? i figured because you totally just missed { BENEDICT ‘BEAN’ EVERLY } walking by. don’t tell me you don’t know who { HE } is ? they kind of look like { THEO JAMES } and i could be wrong but i think that they might be { THIRTY-FOUR } years old right now. they’ve been living in palmview for the last { THIRTY-FOUR YEARS }. and i don’t know if anyone has ever told them this before but they kind of remind me of { JASON MENDOZA } from { THE GOOD PLACE }. if you stick around the town long enough you might catch them in action working at { THE SALTY SAILOR } as a { BARTENDER }. you see this town isn’t really that big of a place, some folks like to call them the { AIRHEAD } of palmview! they took a liking to the name too after a while, go figure. oh crap, they must have heard me yapping. they’re coming this way. i got to warn you though, rumor has it they can pretty { DIM-WITTED } at times. i wouldn’t take it too seriously though, from the times i’ve spoken to them they seemed pretty { FRIENDLY } to me. we see each other all the time since they live in that { 5 BEDROOM } apartment beside me over in { CORAL COVE }. i better leave you to it. it was nice meeting you!

tw: florida man behaviour

Basic Information

Full Name: benedict thomas everly iv

Nickname(s): bean

Age: thirty-four

Date of Birth: may 16

Hometown: palmview grove, florida

Current Location: palmview grove, florida

Gender: cismale

Pronouns: he/him

Orientation: heteroromantic, heterosexual

Relationship Status: single

Occupation: bartender at salty sailor bar

Favourites

Weather: partly cloudy with a strong breeze

Colour: blue

Sport: football (american)

Beverage: fireball

Food: steak, medium rare

Animal: llama

Family

Sibling(s): 4 sisters, tba.

Pet(s): a caucasian shepherd named waffle

Biography

benedict thomas everly the fourth is, despite his name, actually the eight generation of palmview grove village idiot. it is a miracle that his father, an extremely dumb but very charming security guard met and fell in love with his mother, an incredibly brilliant lawyer. bean was an accident they couldn’t replicate, no matter how hard they tried. they’d dreamed of a large family, but when bean was three, they realized it wasn’t going to happen naturally. so they turned to adoption, and from there, bean gained four sisters. his sisters were his whole world, from the moment they came home. he was destined to be a big brother, even if he lacked wisdom to pass along to them. each new daughter who joined the family only expanded bean’s heart, and he didn’t believe there was anything in the world he could love more than his girls.

{ tw: amputation } you’ve heard of florida man™, the powerful and elusive creature known for all manner of creative and unique manners of fucking shit up. imagine, you’re scrolling socials one day and you see the headline FLORIDA MAN GETS LEG BITTEN OFF BY GATOR TRYING TO RUN ACROSS THEM LIKE LOGS. you think “wow, what an idiot”. what you don’t think is “i wonder what he’s up to now”. well, friend, he’s your local bartender. it’s been six years since bean lost his leg from the knee down, and he’s adapted to his life quite well. he has a prosthetic that makes his life a lot easier, and even had a tattoo artist friend paint some neat designs on it. he’s relatively open and honest about what happened, and admits *now* that it was a stupid idea.

when bean met waffle, it was love at first sight. waffle was just a puppy, eight weeks old and forty-five pounds of fluff. they warned him that this dog was going to grow up to be massive, but what he didn’t expect is what a massive instagram hit waffle would end up being. from a puppy to now, she won over 2.1 million followers, and has been featured on multiple news outlets across the globe for her size and cuddly demeanor. running waffle’s instagram account became his day job, and soon sponsorships were paying his bills. combine that with the discounted rent of sharing a five-bedroom, he is living large. is he smart with the money? absolutely not. does it just keep coming in anyway? as long as he posts every 2-3 days. he’s basically unstoppable. good luck to anyone who has to deal with him.

[sleepdeprivedsimp234]

guess who thought of more centaur au stuff :3

…

✨moi✨

Anygays

Minnesota!

Red dun Norwegian fjord horse body :>

was born wild but got trapped in a hunter’s trap, and was found by Wisconsin and Iowa and taken in with the rest of the states

he completely kicked the shit out of the first person to try and put a saddle on him. rip 🕊️ /j

Wisconsin!

chestnut color, Breton horse body

born into farmwork, was treated well but got lost and was taken in by the other states

Still goes back to his human family to help if he doesn’t have anything state-related to do

Rhode Island!

buckskin color, Dutch miniature horse body

yes he’s small, mention it and you get kicked through the nearest wall

Great Britain only really used him for smaller things, even though Rhodey wanted to do something bigger and more important

has a permanent limp from failing a jump that he saw the other colonies doing and falling into a gully.

^A couple (Virginia, Maryland, New York (yes he would’ve at this point in time. Now? Probably not)) others tried to warn him that he might get hurt, the others just watched and even cheered him on.

Georgia!

for lore reasons, he has an Ardennais (a draft horse) horse body (bay color)

back before the Revolution, he would mainly haul lumber or mail or supplies, and wasn’t treated the best mostly because of his skin color (i think this is called period-typical racism but I could be wrong.)

perfectly chill with being ridden as long as it’s not with a saddle (he’s good with a blanket or bareback)

He is one of the states that would often find and take care of the other centaurs/states (Louisiana or Florida or Alabama for example)

Iowa!

American Cream Draft horse body, if you can’t tell by the name, his coat is a creamy beige or champagne color

was born wild, taken hostage and put to work on a farm and also made a show horse of sorts, and then later taken in by the states

lost a leg in the Civil War, now has a prosthetic leg (I found out that horses can in fact have prosthetic limbs as an alternative to euthanasia, which is great imo)

Massachusetts!

hey guess what! he’s also a unicorn centaur!! as for his coat, like Loui, his coat looks black at first glance, but he has an blue sheen (because of the shield on his flag) when the light hits his coat right.

He was Britain’s first attempt at a war weapon, so he definitely looks a little rough (unlike Loui, his horn is still completely in tact). Though he was stubborn and rebellious enough that Britain gave up.

parts of his right side are covered in burn scars due to an explosion during one of the many wars he was apart of.

teases about "being a cute little unicorn" don’t get to him. he knows that unicorns are badass and he is damn proud of being one! (plus Uncle Scotland’s national animal is the unicorn, and he loves Uncle Scot /silly)