#i am so tired and braindead

[tsartistry]

Local death god infodumps about his special interest (human bodies)

Anubis doesn't have a lot of personality in The Kane Chronicles aside from being quiet and broody (but still very unapologetically sweet to Sadie and Walt) but I imagine once he gets comfortable enough to unmask, his friends are getting an endless stream of Fun Facts About Human Biology. He is the one who invented the mummification process, after all.

On a scale of Apollo to Anubis, how excited is this god to inhabit a mortal body?

Seeing as I hail from the Venom fandom, I am 100% primed to adore this "brain buddies sharing a body and also maybe romantically involved" dynamic. I need all my fellow Venom fans to read The Kane Chronicles and bring that Symbrock energy to Walt/Anubis and Set/Amos.

This design for Anubis is shamelessly lifted from @feeshies check out his art he does great work.

[actual-changeling]

one single hot take from me before i go rewatch the reunion scene ten times and then go tf to bed.

we have a show full of queer people. every single person we encounter with the exception of the british probably is QUEER. ALL OF THEM. let that fucking sink in for a second.

and the queerness is so multi faceted and well done and reflects the realities of so many people watching it.

so if you sit down after this finale and type a post that in any shape or form calls izzy's death homophobic, "bury your gays", or anything in that direction? i need you to go outside for real. i need you to fucking log off and look at the news. maybe look at some nice queer media statistics from 2014-2016. maybe turn on the fucking tv and scroll through the programs and THEN you can come back and tell me how many queer people you saw. how many shows that are unashamedly about queerness.

yeah that's what i fucking thought you absolute twat.

if you are harassing creators over their writing choices when they are out there risking their careers to create queer media you are a vile person and i want nothing to do with you.

[sambrosiac]

not now sweetie, mommy's defending sam winchester in the tiktok comments

[friday-answers]

universe friday easter egg:

solus asks for radio to meet them at 1508 tomsby street. besides tomsby street being an actual street mentioned in universe city within radio silence, there is something else about the address that is familiar........

i'm impressed no one has noticed it yet.... 1508.... Hm.....

[anonymolly]

.

[dead-salmon]

what fucks with my brain is i see people with who many of my political views align with

but then they go "north korea has a good government actually, so does china, the ddr was a good thing, it's all just western propaganda" and i'm????

am i missjng something here? did i miss something here? i cann 100% well say the ddr isn't and wasn't a good thing, but wdym n.korea and chinas governments are good actually. aren't those dictatorships? how are they good? am i missing something? are they actually dictatorships or not? what's the propaganda here, dictatorship or no dictatorship??? i know there's lits of propaganda about it in the west, but they're still not good governments?? right???? help???????????

[sodapoppss]

What if- what if an inkling or Octoling ate their own hair would it taste bad or would you just need to season it and it would taste good

[solstheimtxt]

Doordash when i catch u doordash, when i fucking catch you doordash

[phoenix-flamed]

New outfit for him? New outfit for him.

[iron-niffler]

god im tired

[whentherewerebicycles]

ok reworked a big chunk of my cover letter and then ran out of steam (I have slept… so badly all week) but I’m feeling positive about it. I really don’t want to spend a ton of time obsessing over it so I’m going to try to finish it tomorrow after my morning meetings. I have an annoying work meeting first thing (about the situation I rage-cried about earlier today) but then I get to follow it up with a meeting with my all-time fave student. those calls always leave me feeling sooo happy and energized so I should be in a great headspace for finishing the letter. I ideally want to submit tomorrow but if I feel the materials aren’t quite there for whatever reason I’ll allow myself the weekend to tinker. I am qualified for this job! and pretty sure I would greatly enjoy literally every aspect of it!! cross your fingers for me!!!

[chlodines]

guys................. when i get my neuropsych on wed.. im j gna spend the whole time thinking abt how im going to go home right after and hit my budussy and get stoned off one rip

[snowymaltese]

16+ hour long workday on a goddamn Sunday, let's fucking gooooooo

[dsybouquet]

braindead about ceo! ellie who goes out with her managers for drinks after a day in the office. the first buttons of her white shirt open and the rest of her suit a bit losely, letting go of the work environment to enjoy herself.

after a drink, she notices you behind the counter, serving people, mixing drinks. something about you was so mesmerising.. she just couldn’t look away.

slowly she excused herself from her colleagues and walked over to the point of the counter where you were polishing glasses. she placed her glass on the counter, resting her arm next to it.

“mind refilling?”

she asked, causing you to look up and face her. a smirk painted on her lips as her green eyes met yours in the dimmed light of the bar.

“sure!”

you answered as kind as ever, smiling at the woman in front of you. you turned around to reach the liquor shelf, taking the whiskey down. ellies eyes fell on your short skirt, which in the front was covered by your apron.

you refilled her glass, asking if she needs anything else.

“what’s a girl like you doing in a bar like this?”

her tattooed hand reaching for the glass of whiskey in front of her.

“trying to keep her head above the water while going to university.”

you laughed, throwing a dish towel over your shoulder.

“and what’s a woman like you doing here?”

ellies smirk got wider, she loved the attitude. and you loved the fact that you knew you’d get good tips from that.

“university? what are you studying?”

“psychology”

you smiled, leaning against the counter. you push a strand of hair behind your ear and took a sip from your bottle. ellie hardly met someone who could hold eye contact as well as you can, shes almost the one wanting to look away.

“a pretty psychology student working in a bar like this? this is not up your alley.”

her voice was quiet, but loud enough for you to hear.

“i have to get by somehow. and after all, the pay is good, the tips even better.”

oh ellie could see why you get tipped well. engaging in conversations, having the pretty privilege and being smart too.

“excuse me for a second.”

you said, walking over to serve one of your regulars his usual beer, having a quick chit chat while doing so. ellie didn’t like how the man looked at you. lust drunken eyes while drinking his beer.

of course, you just looked too good, you were so kind too. she watched while you talked to him, analysing your posture. as a psychology student, you for sure knew how to talk and present yourself to the different people on front of you.

when you turned to face her again, you caught her staring. you smiled, thinking to yourself how an woman this attractive was so intrigued by you.

you eyed her. her tattooed hand, from which you wondered how far up her arm the tattoo was going. the suit and the - by now - unorganised shirt underneath. the way too expensive watch and rings. her eyes and freckles and the auburn hair, which was halfway put in a loose bun.

she was oddly beautiful.

“sorry, had to serve a local.”

you smiled, leaning back over the counter to talk to ellie.

“What’s your name, dear?”

the way she asked for your name made your knees weak.

“______. What’s yours?”

“Ellie.”

you kept the conversation going until you had to close the bar. in between you served your locals, you served new clients but you always returned to ellie. there was just something about her. something so special that you didn’t even question why you were talking to her all night long in between running around.

tired as the clock strikes 4 am, you printed her bill, still smiling and talking with the woman so amazing that your psychology brain couldn’t handle it.

“alright, here’s your bill! we’re closing.”

you put it in front of her, smiling slightly before you turned around to put some glasses in the drawer.

when you looked back to where ellie was, she was gone. only leaving a 200$ note on the plate with the bill and her number written with a pen - text me xx written behind it.

part 2 is out now !! find it right here !

[voredere]

TO ANY TME PEOPLE FEELING THE URGE TO BE ANNOYING ON MY POST:

- i don't give a shit about your specific preferences or how you think you're doing it "right"

-i dont want to hear about how you LIKE girldick actually or your weirdly fetishistic fixations

-i don't want to hear about your trauma

-i don't care about your feelings in general on this subject. this isn't about you.

-make your own post

also the genital preference bullshit is so telling because like. you just assume every trans person is pre op and perisex? you just assume every cis person is perisex? you just assume every trans person who IS pre op and perisex will want to use their genitalia in whatever way your imagination has defaulted to (or at all for that matter! plenty of trans people prefer toys/straps, or only like anal/oral or non penetrative sex, or are service tops)? you need to unlearn the idea that knowing if someone is trans (regardless of if they use agab or xtx or or tma/tme) tells you anything at all about their genitals or how they have sex. and stop being so god damn nosy while you're at it. grow the fuck up and stop trying to normalise penis inspection day.

[immoral-stranger]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐬 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 // 𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑. 💋 “I can get a little drunk, I get into all the don’ts but on good days I am charming as fuck.” – Tove Lo, Moments.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem! reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: None except alcohol and drunkenness.

A/N: Sike, you're getting the first letter tonight. It's cute as fuck. Dedicated to all my girlies (gn) who get Tove Lo drunk when aiming for Pitbull drunk.

Charles wasn’t sure why he had agreed to go out tonight. Monaco’s nightlife, as dazzling as it was, had become an overplayed record to him. Especially during the summer with all the tourists. He remembered being freshly turned 18 and discovering it (legally) for the first time. It had been magical. Now it was a done deal, a well-rehearsed story, knowing how it would go from beginning to end. Maybe that was why he actually preferred spending time on his yachts or on some small remote resort on some small remote island during his summer break from the racing calendar. 

Alas, here he was, tipsy from an overly sweet cocktail in a VIP booth at Jimmy’z. His friends were having fun, as were his friends’ friends and whoever else could get close enough to leech on, knowing that Charles was definitely the one paying the tab. It seemed to be the primary talent of those people, sticking close enough to the rich and the famous to get something for free out of it. 

Charles found it braindead. 

He sighed, swaying half-heartedly to the DJ’s relentless house music. Was he even a fan of house music? He didn’t think so. Between the thumping bass, the flashing strobe lights, and the endless game of shouting over the noise just to make small talk, Charles felt tired.

Maybe he was getting old. But he hadn’t even hit thirty yet. Could you have a quarter-life crisis at 27?

It got to the point where he started counting down the minutes until it would be socially acceptable to excuse himself for a “bathroom break.” The moment came, and Charles seized it, weaving his way through the dance floor. He lingered in the queue for the toilets longer than necessary, opting for a stall over a urinal so he could sit in peace. He didn’t even need to pee. He just wanted to be alone. His head was spinning slightly from the alcohol. Not drunk, not even close, but his famously rigorous fitness regimen had turned him into something of a lightweight. Not that he’d admit it.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, he navigated the narrow corridor leading back to the main area of the club. That was when he felt it—a tug on his arm, insistent and clumsy. Before he could fully process what was happening, he was yanked backward and down onto a bench. Or a sofa. One of those little black pleather-clad, trashy club furnishings. 

For a fleeting moment, he considered all the reasons he hated being famous. Whatever was about to happen—selfies, autograph requests, or an inebriated declaration of undying love for Ferrari—he was sure it would test the limits of his patience.

“Hi!” a voice chirped. “Are you busy? No?”

He blinked. Sitting beside him was a girl—young and lively, a light shining in your eyes as you spoke excitedly. Or maybe just drunkenly. You had that half-glazed look of someone balancing precariously between charming and completely hammered. You spoke English. A tourist most likely. Dressed up nicely. Not like you had another choice. It was Monaco. 

As Charles was too shocked to answer, you continued talking in a heartbeat. 

“Great! Not busy.” You clasped your hands together as though you’d just agreed to the most wonderful thing in the world. “You…” you announced grandly, pointing at him, “are going to help… me.”

“I am?” Charles asked, caught between amusement and disbelief.

“Yes!” you exclaimed, as though this were obvious. You leaned heavily on Charles’ shoulder for support, your words tumbling out in a rush. “Okay, so. Here’s the situation: I lost my bag. Then I lost Emma while looking for my bag. And now—” you gestured dramatically, nearly toppling over even when sitting up—“I am stuck here. No bag, no Emma, and way, waaay too much tequila in my system.”

Charles stifled a laugh. “And you think I can help?”

“Of course!” You nodded vigorously. “If you find my bag and Emma, then this—” you gestured vaguely at yourself,—“this will no longer be a problem.”

“If I find your bag?” he found himself repeating. 

“Mhm, then you can come here to me again,” you slurred your speech a little, nodding again like your head was constantly stuck doing it. “With Emma and the bag and no problems.” 

“You can’t do it yourself?” 

“Exactly!” You pointed at him, impressed, narrowly avoiding touching his dimpled cheek with your long nail. “See, you get it. You’re a lifesaver.”

You seemed to have no idea who he was, and you were definitely drunker than you had first led on. He saw it in the way your body slumped and in your bloodshot eyes. Your hair was messy, your makeup smudged, and your dress a little wrinkled. And you were undeniably funny, totally capturing and taking over the conversation without letting Charles speak. 

He helped you to lean against the sofa, getting himself out from being your human crutch. Still, he couldn’t find a way out of being your lifesaver. 

“All right,” Charles sighed. “What does your bag look like?”

“It’s black, sparkly, and small. Like… impossibly small. A wallet with delusions. But I bought it in Paris—”

“Okay, I got it.” Charles suppressed a smile. “And Emma?”

“Tall. Blonde. Looks like she’s judging everyone but will absolutely cry over a military homecoming.”

“Right. Tall, blonde, and emotionally complex. Got it,” he repeated. “Are you sure I can leave you on your own?” 

Charles stood from the sofa, glancing at you as you leaned your head back against the wall, your eyes fluttering closed.

“I’m fiiiiine. I just need the room to stop spinning.”

For a moment, he hesitated. Enthralled by your giggle and the way you looked sort of fairy-esque with glittery eyeshadow in patches around your eyes. There was something magnetic about you, even in your dishevelled state. He couldn’t lie and say that it wasn’t also slightly concerning—a young woman alone in a drunken state. You were a happy kind of drunk right now, but he had a feeling that might change quickly. 

With a final look at you, he set off into the chaos of the club. Back underneath the strobe lights and the pulsating music. Back between the warm and drunk bodies of others. Somewhere, a girl in a sparkly dress was yelling about her ex to anyone who’d listen, and he thought for a fleeting moment how easily you might have been her—except you weren’t yelling. You’d asked for his help.

He heard his friends yell after him from their place in the VIP area, probably wondering why he’d been gone for so long. But Charles was on a mission—to find a minuscule bag and a blonde woman in a crowd of not that many bags and way too many blonde women. 

The bag was easier to spot than he expected. Its sparkles caught the light as it lay abandoned, right by his feet on the dance floor. That seemed too good to be true. He picked it up, the thing so small it felt absurd in his hands. What could you even fit in here? A debit card? A single lipstick?

Charles didn’t mean to pry, but he opened it to make sure it actually was yours, and much to his surprise, he found a debit card, some spare euros, some sort of makeup product, a tampon, and a driver’s license. Fuck, you were the kind of person who looked gorgeous in official portraits. And he knew your name now. Maybe he should’ve asked for that before he decided to agree on being your knight in shining armour. 

Emma, however, was more elusive. Verging on needle in a haystack territory. He scanned the floor and the booths, getting nowhere. Looking for a girl as equally lost as you were turned out to be harder than he thought. Everyone fit so well into the orchestrated act of nightclub hierarchy that no one looked out of place. 

Admitting defeat, Charles turned to walk back to the corridor outside the toilets, hoping to find you exactly where he left you. Before he could even round the corner, he heard your voice cut through the noise. 

“I know, Emma. I know that I do this all the time and that it scares you to death.” 

Your tone was half-pleading, half-explanatory, like you were trying to win a debate and console her at the same time. The sound of it made him stop in his tracks, curiosity anchoring him to the spot.

As he edged closer, you came into view, seated exactly where he’d left you. Beside you stood Emma, arms folded tightly across her chest in a way that broadcast equal parts frustration and affection. She was, as Charles had guessed, tall, blonde, and distinctly more polished than you at the moment. Similarly dressed but with an air of sharp control. 

Emma was the kind of person you’d send in to fix a mess—not become part of one. Clearly switched into full mom mode, she had already given you a glass of what Charles prayed was water and had tied your hair into a haphazard ponytail, probably anticipating the worst-case scenario of tequila-induced disaster.

Charles lingered just out of sight, gripping your little sparkly bag as if it were a trophy. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but your voice was unmistakable and loud enough to rival the DJ. 

“I get a little drunk and I get into all the don’ts, but on good days? I am charming as fuck, and you love me for it.” 

Your voice, slurred but insistent, filled the hallway. You reached out toward her, your hands wobbling in the air until she sighed and took them. Her annoyance cracked just enough for Charles to catch the tired laugh she let slip. It was the kind of laugh that said, Yes, I love you, but you’re impossible, and I have considered leaving you in a bush once or twice.

Charles smiled to himself, your declaration replaying in his mind. Charming as fuck, indeed. He wasn’t sure if the grin tugging at his lips was due to the absurdity of the situation or the undeniable truth of your words.

He wasn’t invisible, after all, so when you were done with your exclamation to Emma, your gaze easily landed on Charles, standing somewhat pathetically, waiting just a few metres away. The moment your eyes met his, you lit up like you’d just remembered something incredibly important.

“And look!” you exclaimed, pointing toward him. Drunk you had a thing for pointing. “I had this… hot guy here to help me. He’s found my bag! You, sir, are a lifesaver.”

You’d just managed to call him both “hot” and “sir” in the same breath, and Charles wasn’t sure if it was because you didn’t know his name or if you were trying to drive him completely insane.

Emma’s head whipped toward Charles, her face shifting from surprise to a kind of restrained horror as recognition dawned. Her posture stiffened again, her folded arms tightening. While you hadn’t known who Charles was, Emma definitely did. 

“Y-you roped Charles fucking Leclerc into looking for your bag?!” 

“A what now?” you mumbled, looking between the two of them with confusion written across your face.

Charles stepped closer, handing you the bag like a peace offering. “I am… a Charles Leclerc.” 

“It’s a thing?”

“No, it’s my name.” 

You squinted at him, as though trying to decide if this explanation satisfied you. Then, with a dramatic sigh, you let your head fall back against the wall. “You should have led with that,” you pointed out. “I need to sit down. Oh wait—” You gestured weakly at your own position. “Already doing that.”

“Charles Leclerc,” Emma said, gesturing toward him with an incredulous sweep of her hand. “Formula 1 driver? Like… literally one of the best in the world?”

“Ohhh, right. We’re in Monaco,” you mumbled to yourself. 

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something about you being impossible. Then she straightened, looking at Charles briefly before her gaze shifted to the dance floor. “I’m going to find the others and tell them it’s time to go. Don’t let her wander off again, please.”

Before Charles could respond, she disappeared into the crowd, her blonde head bobbing toward the pulsating lights. He watched her go, unsure if he’d just been handed a babysitting gig or a challenge. When he turned back, you were studying him, your head tilted slightly.

Charles hesitated, then he sat down beside you again, leaning back against the worn pleather as he looked right back at you. Up close, the club lights caught in your hair, making it shimmer like an accidental halo. He wondered if it was the alcohol in his veins or just the moment, but you looked… luminous.

“So, what now? Bag found, friend located. Mission accomplished,” he asked, almost proudly, as he relaxed further into his seat. 

You drunkenly fumbled through the belongings inside your bag, in disbelief over everything being there. “You really did solve all of my problems… Thank you,” you said softly, a hint of genuine gratitude creeping into your voice.

He smiled, his amusement softening into something warmer. “You’re welcome.”

You studied him for a moment, your gaze slower now, more deliberate. “It makes sense that you’re famous,” you said finally, as if you’d unravelled some profound mystery. “You’ve got a really pretty face.”

Charles chuckled completely unguarded. “I think that’s the tequila talking.”

“Nope,” you said, grinning with certainty. “That’s all me.”

He couldn’t help but be drawn in by your confidence, your complete lack of pretense. On top of the almost sticky pleather sofa, he could see your hand move tentatively, dancing over the fabric, aimless yet perfectly intentional. He wasn’t thinking when he grabbed it, intertwining his fingers with your own, but it felt right—and something innocent that felt this right couldn’t be wrong. 

“I think you were right,” he said, not scared to look you in the eye. “About you being charming as fuck.”

“Good,” you replied, raising your glass of water in a mock toast. “Because I think I’m keeping you here for a while.”

“Still too drunk to walk?” he teased. 

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” you declared, each syllable landing like a punchline. 

He laughed loudly, letting the chaos fade into the background, his hand grounded in yours, feeling more intimate than any drunken kiss had ever done.

Charles wasn’t dreading being in the club on a Saturday night for once, not counting the minutes until he could leave without being called boring. Instead, he found himself thinking about where you might go next—and wondering if he could come along. Even if that was a hotel room after-party or a rented apartment in Nice. You were more interesting than anything else Monaco could offer right now, and filer à l’anglaise would leave the leeches to pay for their own enjoyment. 

Thank you for reading, hope this is a good introduction to what the rest of the love letters will be like! Please comment, like, reblog, bombard me with messages, I feed off that stuff 💌

Taglist: @koko-mei @anamiad00msday @floweringanna @lucyysthings @yelenam5 @firefirevampire @alexxavicry @emails-i-can-send

(if i haven't tagged you it's because your age wasn't visible for me to verify on your blog, i keep that as a precaution even if i'm not always posting smut)