#mentions drinking

[professorcalculusstanaccount]

as newspapers today dont tend to hire children, a modern day Tintin would run a clickbait YouTube channel, except the clickbait is 100% real every single time

he starts off as an irritating conservative pundit at 14, meets Chang then leaves the think tank paying him and launches his own independent channel and blows up shortly after. Chang helps with video editing and managing his socials and they often chat on video calls between adventures. Haddock, his foster dad, has absolutely no knowledge of his earlier videos.

[monkesupreme]

dense, neutron star of a man. His weight fluctuates based off of the amount of sun hes been exposed to, and the amount of water ingested, so a very healthy kryptonian easily weighs around 350-400 lbs/ 158-181 kgs. Martha quickly traded in her lawn chairs for sturdy, solid wood, rocking chairs for the front porch as he got older, but Clark seems to be drawn to the flimsy lawn chairs like a moth to a flame.

(Hes prone to shouting for his Ma or Pa when hes scared awake, old habit hes never broke out of lol)

Bonus: a regular day for Bruce

[felsicveins]

The road to forgiveness is paved with miles of bullying

[canisalbus]

✦ Tipsy ✦

[skunkes]

quick non joke to practice anatomyyyy real quickkkk

[hinamie]

so just know, I'm healing / even though it don't feel like it

insp

[thesecondhandwoman]

BOTTOM OF THE BOTTLE

Sevika x f!reader

Synopsis: Another night, another time that Sevika returns home drunken off of cheap booze from The Last Drop. But this time, it was the last night that you could take it any longer.

A/N: I had to start this year off with a Sevika fanfic. I just had to.

The creak of the apartment door tore through the quiet night like a blade. You’d been waiting, pacing, and stewing in the dim glow of a single lantern. Sevika was late tonight, again. But you didn’t expect the heavy thud of her boots to hit the floor this late, nor the unmistakable tang of Last Drop whiskey that followed her like a storm cloud.

“Sevika,” you said, stepping into view. “God, you’re drunk, aren’t you?”

She didn’t bother taking off her coat. Instead, she slumped against the doorframe, the flickering lamplight casting shadows across her sharp, exhausted features. Her metal arm whirred faintly as she ran a hand through her disheveled hair.

“Nice observation,” she drawled, her voice thick with liquor and something darker—Anger? Frustration? She kicked the door shut with her heel, the sound reverberating in your chest.

You crossed your arms. “Where were you? I waited, again.”

“Don’t start, you already know damn well where I was” she muttered, brushing past you. “Plus, I’m not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood?” You followed her into the small kitchen as she reached for the half-empty bottle she’d left on the counter earlier that week. “Sevika, we were supposed to talk tonight, about us, about this.”

“This?” She turned, bottle in hand, and gestured between the two of you with a bitter laugh. “What is this, huh? Me coming back to you nagging? You waiting around like some—some Undercity housewife? Is that what you want?”

Her words stung like a slap. “What I want is for you to actually care about this relationship. About me! But you’re too busy drinking and fighting Jinx’s battles to even—”

“Don’t you dare bring her into this,” Sevika snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, the air between you felt suffocating. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what it takes to survive out there.”

“I don’t get it?” Your voice rose, trembling with the weight of held-back tears. “You think I don’t know what survival looks like? I’ve been surviving my whole damn life! But surviving isn’t enough anymore, Sevika. I need more. I need you—sober, present, not drowning yourself at the Last Drop every night!”

She scoffed, turning away from you to take a swig from the bottle. The sight was infuriating, her indifference like salt in a wound.

“Don’t walk away from me!” you yelled, your voice cracking. “For once, just face this and have an actual conversation!”

“Why?” she barked, spinning back to you with a fire in her eyes that you hadn’t seen in weeks. “So you can tell me how I’m failing you? How I’m not enough? Guess what? I’ve never been enough—for Silco, for Zaun, for anyone. Why the hell would you be any different?”

The raw vulnerability in her words made your breath hitch, but the alcohol twisted them into something cruel. You stepped back, crossing your arms defensively.

“You know what?,” you muttered quietly, voice trembling but firm. “You’re right. You’re not enough—not like this. And I can’t keep pretending it’s okay.”

Her expression faltered, the weight of your words landing like a punch. She staggered back a step, bottle still in hand, before the anger flared again. “So what? You’re just gonna leave, huh? Walk away like everyone else?”

“Maybe I should,” you shot back, hating the way your voice shook. “You’re the one pushing me away, Sevika. Not the other way around.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of her breathing—heavy, uneven. She looked at you like you’d just struck her, but the tension between you was unbearable.

Finally, she set the bottle down on the counter with a loud clink. “Fine,” she muttered, her voice low and venomous. “Do what you want. I won’t stop you.”

You blinked, your chest tightening as the tears you’d been holding back spilled over. “Is that all you have to say?”

She didn’t answer, her gaze fixed on the floor as if looking at you would shatter her completely.

“Sevika, are you serious?” Your voice cracked, softer now, pleading. But she didn’t move, didn’t respond.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you turned and headed for the bedroom, leaving her standing there in the room, alone with only the soft flicker of the light. The weight of her words, and your own, pressed heavily against your chest.

You wanted to believe this wasn’t the end, that the Sevika you loved was still somewhere beneath the alcohol and anger. But as you closed the door behind you, the sound of her lighting another cigarette echoed in your ears, and you weren’t sure if she’d ever let you reach her again.

The first thing Sevika noticed when she woke was the ache in her head—a dull, relentless pounding that made her groan and press her flesh hand against her temple. Her mouth was dry, and her tongue felt like sandpaper. The faint stench of whiskey clung to her clothes, and the stale taste of regret lingered on her lips.

Her eyes cracked open, adjusting slowly to the dim light filtering through the curtains. She was still on the couch where she had lit her cigarette, her body slumped awkwardly across the cushions. Memories of the night before hit her like a freight train—stumbling through the door, the sharp edge of your voice, the argument that escalated too quickly.

“Shit,” she muttered, dragging herself upright. Her metal arm whirred faintly as she stretched, her muscles stiff from a night spent in an uncomfortable position. She rubbed her face, trying to shake off the fog in her head, but the memory of your last words cut through the haze like a blade.

“You’re the one pushing me away, Sevika. Not the other way around.”

She groaned again, this time not from the hangover but from the guilt gnawing at her chest. She’d passed out before she could even think about apologizing. Her pride, fueled by whiskey and frustration, had kept her from chasing after you when you’d stormed off.

Now, she needed to find you, to fix this—if it wasn’t too late.

Sevika pushed herself off the couch, her heavy boots thudding against the floor as she made her way toward the bedroom. Her heart sank as she approached the partially open door. She hesitated for a moment, gripping the doorframe for support.

She called out softly, “Hey, babe, are you awake?”

No response.

She stepped into the room, her gaze immediately sweeping across the bed where she’d last seen you. It was empty. The sheets were rumpled, as if you’d sat there for a while before leaving, but there was no sign of you now.

“Y/N?” she called again, louder this time, her voice cracking slightly.

The silence was deafening.

Her heart began to pound in her chest as her eyes darted around the room. Your jacket was missing from the hook near the door. The pair of boots you always wore to work was gone from their usual spot by the dresser. She opened the closet, her stomach twisting when she noticed the gap where some of your clothes had been.

“No,” she whispered, stepping back, her head shaking in disbelief. “No, no, no…”

Her eyes landed on the nightstand. A folded piece of paper sat there, your handwriting scrawled across the front: Sevika.

She froze, her chest tightening. It took her a moment to move, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up the note. Her fingers hesitated at the edge of the fold, almost as if opening it would confirm the reality she was desperate to deny.

Finally, she unfolded the paper and began to read:

Sevika,

I don’t even know where to start. Maybe with “I’m sorry.” Sorry for yelling, for making this harder than it already is. But I think the truth is, we’ve both been making it hard.

I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you, even when you make it so damn difficult. I love the woman you are when the walls come down, when it’s just the two of us and the world doesn’t matter. But lately, it feels like I’m the only one fighting for that version of you.

I know you’re hurting. I know life hasn’t been kind to you, and you think drowning yourself in alcohol and shutting everyone out is the only way to cope. But Sevika, it’s killing us.

I need you to understand something: I can’t keep breaking myself to pull you out of the dark. I want to be here for you, but I can’t if you won’t meet me halfway.

I’m leaving. Not because I don’t love you, but because I do. If you ever decide you’re ready to let me in—to let yourself heal—you know where to find me.

~I’m sorry, Y/N.

Her grip on the letter tightened as she read, the words blurring slightly as her eyes burned with tears she refused to let fall. The raw honesty in your words cut deeper than any blade ever could. She sank onto the edge of the bed, the letter trembling in her hand.

She’d always thought she was protecting you by keeping her pain to herself, by drowning it in whiskey and fights. But all she’d done was push you away, the one person who had ever truly cared for her.

Her gaze dropped to the floor, her jaw clenching. She wanted to scream, to punch something, to make this crushing guilt and regret go away, but none of that would bring you back.

Sevika folded the letter carefully, setting it back on the nightstand. For a long moment, she just sat there, staring at the empty space where you should’ve been.

Finally, she stood, her resolve hardening. She wouldn’t let this be the end. If you’d left her a chance, any chance, she would take it. She didn’t know where you’d gone, but she’d find you, especially since she had the smallest idea of where.

And when she did, she would prove that she could be better, that she could be the woman you deserved.

Grabbing her coat, she slipped the letter into her pocket and headed for the door, determination etched into her every step.

The streets of the Undercity were as unforgiving as ever, the air thick with smoke and desperation. Sevika walked with purpose, her boots crunching against the damp cobblestones. Her mind was a storm of emotions—fear, guilt, and determination blending into a volatile mix.

Her destination loomed ahead: Babette’s brothel. The flickering neon sign bathed the surrounding alley in a crimson glow, casting shadows that seemed to taunt her as she approached. She hated this place—not because of what it was, but because it was where you always ran when things got too heavy between the two of you. It was a place you’d told her once made you feel safe, even if Sevika could never understand why.

Sevika pushed open the heavy wooden door, the warm scent of perfume and alcohol hitting her immediately. Inside, the brothel was alive with laughter, soft music, and low murmurs. Velvet drapes hung from the walls, and the dim lighting painted the room in hues of red and gold.

A few of the women lounging near the entrance glanced her way, their smiles faltering when they recognized her. Sevika had a reputation, and it wasn’t one that made people feel comfortable.

She ignored their stares, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on Babette. The Madame of the house was seated at her usual spot near the bar, her dark pinkish hair and sharp smile as disarming as ever.

Babette’s gaze flicked to Sevika, and her smile widened, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, well, if it isn’t Zaun’s favorite enforcer. What brings you here, Sevika? Looking for company tonight?”

Sevika didn’t bother with pleasantries. She crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, stopping just short of Babette’s table. “Where is she?”

Babette raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “You’ll have to be more specific. I have a lot of girls here, darling.”

“You know who I’m talking about,” Sevika growled, her voice low and dangerous. “Where’s Y/N?”

Babette’s playful demeanor faltered for a moment, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied Sevika. “You’ve always got some nerve, barging in here like this after what she’s been through.”

Sevika’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have time for this. Just tell me where she is.”

Babette leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs elegantly. “And why should I? Do you have any idea what you’ve put her through? She came here last night, Sevika, crying, shaking, looking for somewhere to feel like she wasn’t drowning. Do you really think I’m just going to send you after her so you can make things worse?”

The words hit Sevika like a punch to the gut, but she refused to let it show. She clenched her metal fist at her side, the faint whirring noise barely audible over the music. “I know I screwed up. I know I hurt her. But I need to make this right.”

Babette studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighed, leaning forward. “You’re lucky she still cares about you, or I wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

Sevika’s heart skipped a beat. “So, where is she?”

“She’s upstairs,” Babette said, her voice softer now, though still tinged with warning. “Room six. But Sevika…”

Sevika paused, looking back at her.

“If you go up there and hurt her again, I won’t let you walk out of here in one piece. Do you understand me?” Babette’s eyes were cold and sharp, her voice like steel.

Sevika nodded, her throat tight. “I understand.”

Without another word, she turned and headed for the staircase, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Room six.

She stopped in front of the door, her hand hovering over the handle. For a moment, she hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. She couldn’t afford to let her fear control her now. Finally, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, your head resting in your hands. The soft glow of a single lamp bathed the room in golden light, highlighting the tear stains on your cheeks. At the sound of the door opening, you looked up, your eyes widening slightly when you saw her.

“Sevika?” Your voice was a mixture of surprise and exhaustion.

She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice rough but sincere. “We need to talk.”

You stared at Sevika, your body tense, unsure whether to let her stay or tell her to leave. The raw vulnerability in her expression—the regret etched into the lines of her face—wasn’t something you saw often. It caught you off guard, softening the sharp edges of your anger.

“What are you doing here, Sevika?” you asked, your voice quiet but strained. “You said everything you needed to say last night.”

She stepped closer, hesitant, her boots barely making a sound on the worn carpet. Her metal hand flexed at her side, the faint whirring a reflection of her nerves. “I was drunk,” she admitted, her tone rough. “But that doesn’t excuse it. None of it does.”

You blinked, unsure if you were hearing her correctly. Sevika wasn’t one to apologize easily, or at all.

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. “I… I messed up. I’ve been messing up for a while now, and I know I’ve hurt you. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” you said, your voice trembling as the tears you thought you’d run out of threatened to return. “I didn’t.”

Her gaze dropped, shame washing over her features. “You’re right. I’ve been pushing you away. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own shit—my anger, my pride, my damn drinking—that I didn’t see what it was doing to you. To us.”

You swallowed hard, your hands curling into fists in your lap. “Do you even understand how much that hurt? Watching you destroy yourself while I sat there, trying to hold us together? Do you know what it’s like to love someone who won’t let you in?”

“I do,” she said quietly, her voice cracking just enough to make your breath hitch. “Because I’ve been watching you do the same. You’ve been trying to save me, and I’ve been too damn scared to let you.”

The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling between you like a fragile thread. She stepped closer, kneeling in front of you, her metal hand resting on her thigh while her flesh one reached out hesitantly.

“I don’t deserve you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “But I want to try. I want to be better, for you, for us. I can’t promise it’ll be easy, but I don’t want to lose you. Please, Y/N.”

Your heart ached at the sight of her, this powerful, stubborn woman kneeling before you, baring her soul in a way she’d never done before. The anger and hurt inside you hadn’t disappeared, but they softened under the weight of her sincerity.

“You hurt me, Sevika,” you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks. “And I don’t know if I can keep doing this if you won’t fight for us.”

She nodded, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I will. I swear I will. Just give me one more chance. Let me prove it to you.”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. But then you saw it—the fear in her eyes, the desperation. Sevika, who rarely showed weakness, was letting herself be vulnerable for you.

Slowly, you reached out, your hand brushing against hers. Her breath hitched at the contact, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

“I need you to mean it,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the tears. “I need to know you’ll try, Sevika. Not just for me, but for yourself.”

She nodded again, her grip tightening around your hand. “I will. I promise.”

The sincerity in her voice broke something inside you, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around her neck. She stiffened for a moment, then melted into the embrace, her arms encircling your waist as she held you tightly.

The tears came for both of you, quiet sobs that filled the room as the tension and pain of the last few weeks spilled out. She buried her face in your shoulder, her body trembling slightly as she clung to you like you were the only thing keeping her grounded.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against your skin, her voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry.”

“I know,” you murmured, your fingers tangling in her hair. “I know.”

For a long time, neither of you moved, content to stay wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, Sevika pulled back just enough to look at you, her face inches from yours. Her hand came up to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing away the lingering tears.

“I love you,” she said softly, the words raw and honest.

Your breath hitched, and you leaned into her touch. “I love you too.”

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching yours for permission. When you nodded, she leaned in, pressing her lips to yours in a gentle, lingering kiss. It wasn’t like the desperate, heated kisses you’d shared in the past. This one was different—softer, filled with unspoken promises and a tentative hope for something better.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours, her breath warm against your skin. “I’ll do better,” she murmured. “I swear.”

“I know, I believe you.” You whispered, and for once, you truly did believe it.

A/N: And now I go back to all the requests I’ve got (a lot of them are on domestic Caitvi)

[demynom]

Obsessed with Reeve’s four visible pill bottles at his desk getting him through the day with a cocktail of what I can only presume to be xanax and adderall

[coi-arts]

save me mayor bloberta and househusband clay au

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

[whump-in-the-closet]

when a living weapon whumpee only takes orders from ONE person. They’ve been conditioned to ignore everyone else’s orders. This means that after rescue, the team can barely get whumpee to drink or allow them bandage their injuries. One of the teammates manages to imitate whumpee’s handler by deepening their voice.

They stay out of whumpee’s line of sight, standing behind their hospital bed. “Drink this,” they snap, hating how they have to command this broad-shouldered ghost of a person. Without their armor, without their mask, whumpee looks like a wraith. There’s nothing behind their eyes. They play with the hospital blanket with twitching hands that have strangled and maimed.

When whumpee hears the order they stiffen to attention and take the cup offered with those still-shaking hands. But the cup slips through their fingers and lands in a puddle on the tiles.

They immediately tense up, shoulder blades flung so far back they touch. Their breathing quickens, waiting.

But nothing happens.

They give whumpee a new glass of cold water. This time, they lift the cup to whumpee’s lips and hold it steady, with one hand behind their head for support.

[cubbihue]

Does Mr. Turner like rubbing his “son’s” successful career in Dinkleberg’s face??

He does! He brags about Timmy's success to every person within the neighborhood's vicinity. Mr. Turner loves how successful his son is! It really secures his reputation at the neighborhood HOA meetings they host at their house.

Timmy's worked very hard to gain more successes than failures. The more successful he is, the greater his family's social standing!! And the less he gets to overhear his dad ranting to the neighborhood about his failures.

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

[snowflake-sage]

They are good friends!

[maxlarens]

lando + 18 😛

18) squishing the other’s cheek

You can feel the beat of the music in your veins like another heartbeat as Lando drags you through the packed crowd. He's got a grip on your hand like someone's about to tear you away from him, or the crowd is going to swallow you whole. Which doesn't seem likely to happen, given the force with which you're also holding his hand.

He looks back at you, teeth worrying away at his lip, like you might have been replaced by someone else without letting go of him.

"What's wrong?", you shout, getting closer to him so he can hear you over the ditz ditz of the music and the cacophony of voices in the club.

He shakes his head, keeps dragging you, heading in the direction of the bar. He's moving fast and you're stumbling along a bit, spilling the drink you've got in your other hand. You're four or so drinks deep so your balance and coordination isn't as good as you'd like it to be.

"Lando," you shout again, "Slow down. I'm spilling my drink everywhere."

He stops, so suddenly and with so little warning that you thump right into the back of him. Your face hits his spine, you feel cartilage crunching as your nose goes numb and tears involuntarily spring to your eyes.

Fucking ow.

"What the fuck," you're saying as he blurts out,

"You still have that drink?", frantic, panicked in a way you don't hear from him often, "Have you drank any? Tell me if you've had any?"

You've got your hand on the bridge of your nose, trying to quell the tingling feeling spreading through it and hoping it doesn't start bleeding. You frown, meeting your friend's concerned, almost angry expression with an equally as confused one.

"Lando. What are you talking about?"

"Have you had any?"

You shake your head adamantly, something a little sick, a little worried starting to creep into the pit of your stomach, "No. No, I haven't. Why?"

He releases a ragged breath that has his shoulders sagging in relief, but sets your heart rate spiking. You shake your head less in frustration, more because you're not quite sure what he's trying to tell you. You put your drink down on a nearby table, throw a napkin in it for good measure.

"Lando," you press, grabbing his bicep to keep his attention on you as it keeps drifting off into the crowd while he searches for something, "What's going on?'

He opens his mouth, closes it, then guides you into an out of the way corner, tucked behind a booth. Then he says, "I– there was some weird guy before. Like, leering at you, or whatever. I just thought—”

“—you think he spiked my drink?”, you ask, your heart beating a skittering, nervous rhythm in your chest.

Lando nods, lips pursed into a thin line.

“He’s gone now,” he reassures you, “I think. I can’t see him anywhere.”

Your chest feels tight with something— with many somethings. Fear, relief, panic, gratitude. You’ve been introduced to a problem and then had it resolved all in a very quick span of time. Your brain is still playing catch up. There’s music thudding in your ears, Lando’s looking at you like you might turn to dust right in front of him, your nose hurts, your head is spinning from the alcohol, your skin is prickling from the stare of a man who you hope isn’t there anymore.

It’s too much. So you gather it all up in a ball and you throw it away. You take a half step forward and squeeze Lando into the biggest hug you can manage. A little overwhelmed by your affection for him, but unable to throw that away so readily.

You’ve pinned the tops of his arms to his side with the force of the hug and you can feel his hands grappling for you, grabbing at your waist as he tries to hug you back. You press your temple into his cheek, your still tender nose into a groove at his collarbone.

“You’re sweet,” you mutter.

Affection for Lando, unbridled and made worse by alcohol, rises into your throat. You groan into his shoulder, squeeze him even tighter.

“Christ,” he squeaks out a nervous laugh.

You reel back, letting him loose of the crushing hug and sliding your hands to grip his shoulders. You shake your head, biting down on your bottom lip. A strangled noise slips from your mouth, eliciting a raise of Lando’s eyebrows while you reach up to squish his cheeks in between your hands.

“Oh, fuck off,” he groans, but it comes out muffled and incomprehensible as he swats at your hands— not making any real attempt at trying to push them away.

He’s trying not to smile at you, but his toothy little grin punches through chubby cheeks regardless.

“So cute,” you laugh.

His cheeks grow warm under your hands. He wraps his fingers around your wrists, tugging you away.

“I was worried,” he sighs, “And don’t call me cute.”

“I know,” you bite down on a grin, “Thank you Lan, really.”

His tongue moves to worry at his incisor, he’s fighting the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Intentionally not looking at you.

“Don’t call me cute,” he says again, tipping his head back and exposing the line of his neck so he doesn’t have to look you in the eye.

You snort indelicately, then coo, reaching out to pinch his face, “Aw, is that too much for little Lando Norris?”

“God,” he groans loudly, trying hard to pretend he’s not enjoying whatever this is, “You’re so annoying.”

“You love it, Lando.”

“Fuck off,” but there’s no heat in it, only affection.

[clouvu]

Offering lil doodles of them bc my eyes have been opened

[seraphont]

In one of your comics, you show the drones drinking coolant as if it's some form of alcohol. Wouldn't the presence of this coolant kind of negate the solver drones need for oil? Or does this coolant not work with their system?

it def helps, and I’m kinda treating the drones like they were made to reflect human anatomy. so while the coolant will help with overheating in small doses, it doesn’t get processed through their system correctly in large doses. it makes them extremely sluggish and their processes are slowed for a period of time -like being inebriated.

For the DD’s, at least in my AU, I have them chockablock full of healing nanites/anti nanite acid (in their spit) so their bodies repair incredibly fast, it eats away at anything that’s not oil in their system. They’re essentially heavy weights LOL.