#gentlemen of chaos

[gentlemen-of-chaos]

Everett after he doesn't get the proper chaos nutrition he needs...

[chowdergal]

"Isn't destruction such a lovely thing, darling?"

Just a drawing of Everett being the destructive chaos god he is. Thankfully Emile keeps him in check...for now...

[arunneronthird]

pov you just tried to express an opinion in a wayne party. youre a super

[laz-kay]

Raw. Next question

Mythic Quest, The Room Where it Happens (S4: E7)

[kitmarlowe]

Live at Drury Lane commentary / Bernie Clifton's Dressing Room

[doverstar]

in the final episode of the show, Vanessa tells Doofenshmirtz "you're basically a nice guy who's pretending to be evil" and it changes his entire view on his life. she points out it's not actually making him happier to be "evil". that end to his character is something I think about almost every week. Doof is such an unexpectedly-popular part of this zany cartoon and they chose to point out the most obvious thing about his character only in the last episode, and it makes you look at every rewatch differently with him. it's so great. it's great that Doofenshmirtz stops being evil at the end of Phineas and Ferb. growth is essential to characters. Candace had to grow, and Doof had to grow, and they were the true main characters of the show. the only ones who needed to learn, and they learned. and now in this new season they're choosing to retcon that for the sake of the formula? weak. weak. I hate that

[mediocres-writing-blog]

Mortal Kombat: Enenra's Shadow part 2

Chapter 1: Return of the King.

A year or so has passed since Viktor and Enenra have returned home along with Viktor’s father Nico Ghai, who you might recognize better as Red Robin. Despite returning home with a new arm and a jacket with one sleeve (yeah a lot happened in the last series lol), he returned home safe and sound nevertheless to his mother, Melisa. Since said year has passed, Viktor has been able to return to school with minimal issues. In fact, he had fewer issues with bullies and thugs this time around, since he had Enenra with him this time around. Before you jump to conclusions, no, the two didn’t kill anyone, they just scared the shit out of anyone who bothered them or Viktor’s friends. Even on the exams, he had no pressure despite missing for a whole week. He passed all the exams with flying colors, finally trading school and studying for relaxation over the summer vacation. Before heading home after getting the results from the exams, he went to a cafe with a friend of his, in fact, the same friend he talked to when we first met Viktor.

VIKTOR: <Hey, Enis, I just wanted to say thanks for giving me the study-material. Means a lot.>

ENIS (Viktor’s friend): <That's what friends are for, bro.>

The two drank their coffee as they sat there with the sounds of chatter and occasional cars passing by.

ENIS: <By the way, where were you that week? You weren’t answering my calls or texts or anything, what’s up?>

Viktor almost choked on his coffee as he sat there. He looked around, knowing if he told the truth, he might think he’s crazy. So Viktor thought of two possible outcomes to this: either A: he tells the truth and makes himself look like a fool; or B: he makes up some bullshit story that didn’t even happen. So he naturally chose the next best option, drank what was left of his coffee, and got up.

VIKTOR: <Oh, fuck, I should get going. Look, next time i see you, I swear i’ll tell you about it, bye, heheh.>

He snickered, as he walked away from the scene. Viktor began to sweat bullets as he walked through the street, not because he was tired but so goddamn embarrassed at the scene he just caused. He unzipped his jacket just a little bit so that he could get some air, but just as he did, Enenra popped out from under his shirt and gave him a little spook.

ENENRA: Hey–

Viktor jumped a bit, pushing Enenra back into his jacket and looking around, making sure no one was around to see him. He then walked a little faster, trying to make it to the bus as fast as he could while still walking. He finally sat down on one, sitting in an empty seat and zipping his jacket open just a little bit and he poked his head in it and whispered to the symbiotic demon.

VIKTOR (whispering): What did I say about forming while in public?

ENENRA (whispering back): Something about not doing it unless it's necessary.

VIKTOR: Exactly(!) So why are you doing it?

Enenra seemed to look at the star child with a sad expression, the lines on his face bent down as he spoke with a more quiet tone.

ENENRA: I just haven’t spoken to you in a few hours, i felt like you forgot about me…

Viktor sighed, not annoyed, but sort of disappointed in a weird way. As he stepped out of the bus, he walked along before eventually getting to his apartment building, fiddling with the key before he walked in, closing the door as he unzipped his jacket fully and scratching the top of Enenra’s head.

VIKTOR: How could I forget about you, ya stupid idiot? You saved my life.

Enenra smiled, pleased by the affection Viktor is showing him.

VIKTOR: But you know I can’t show you out in public. They’ll throw me into a psych ward and you in area 51 to get experimented on.

The star boy responded, stepping in the elevator and after a few seconds, arriving on his floor and entering his apartment after taking off his shoes. And passing by his mother on her laptop.

VIKTOR: Hey, mom.

ENENRA: Hello, misses Wilson.

MELISA: Hey there, boys.

Before heading to his room, Viktor stopped out of curiosity, approaching his mom and sitting next to her on the couch.

VIKTOR: Uhm… Whatcha doin’, mom?

MELISA: Thinking if I should legally change my last name or keep Wilson while trying to get your father citizenship.

Viktor nodded, as Enenra looked beside him. Melisa turned her head to look at the demon, patting him gently.

MELISA: Hello, Enenra… also, Viktor, do you think we can talk. In private?

Viktor looked at her and nodded before taking a conveniently placed jar from the table. VIKTOR: Oh of course. Enenra, I bet 5 marks you can't fit in this jar.

Enenra slowly turned to his host, showing a face of determination and slight cockiness.

ENENRA: You dare challenge me, Earthrealm fool?

The demon responded, completely evaporating from his host and slithering into the jar before looking at Viktor.

ENENRA: Ha ha, see? I fit perfe–

Before the demon could finish, Viktor closed the jar, carrying it to the kitchen before returning to the living room and sitting next to his mother.

VIKTOR: What’s the situation, Ma?

Melisa looked around as he walked back, taking a deep breath before looking at Viktor.

MELISA: Look, Viktor, you're a good kid.

VIKTOR: Well, you’re a great mother.

Melisa chuckled, looking down for a second at his comment, before looking back up.

MELISA: Thank’s son.. But that's not what I wanted to talk about. It's Enenra.

VIKTOR: What about him?

Melisa’s expression shifted as she responded.

MELISA: Well, he’s… God, how do I put this… Chaotic.

VIKTOR: What do you mean?

As he asked, a shattering sound was heard from the kitchen. Viktor stood up, looking over to the kitchen and seeing Enenra slithering toward him, a shattered jar on the floor.

ENENRA: You thought you could trap me in that glass prison forever, you pink-haired pest!?

Viktor turned his gaze to Melisa, who gave him a smirk with a raised eyebrow.

VIKTOR: The face is unnecessary, mom.

MELISA: I beg to differ, kid.

Viktor rolled his eyes as Enenra slithered up his leg before he started walking over to the door to his room. Then Melisa stopped him.

MELISA: Oh, one more thing?

Viktor turned.

MELISA: Keep that peculiar dog on a leash, is all I’m sayin’.

She added, looking back to her laptop and continued working. Viktor nodded before heading off to his room. Viktor half-closed the door, tossing his jacket over the end of the door and crashing down on his bed. 

VIKTOR: Well, that's a way to start a summer vacation. 

ENENRA: How, by receiving a cryptic message from your mother or by trapping me in a glass jar? Also sidenote, DON’T do that again.

VIKTOR (while chuckling): Both. And I just might.

ENENRA: If you’re smart, you WON’T.

VIKTOR: Fine fine, I’ll stop, Jesus.

Viktor responded giggling, as he laid in his bed. As we leave our protagonists alone for a bit, we turn our attention to a completely different location. Not a city, not a town and not even a village, but instead a completely different plane of existence.

The picture rotates to an island, somewhere between the borders that bind the realms of Outworld and Earthrealm, is where the facility of the Deadly Alliance is located. In said facility reside the aforementioned Deadly Alliance of the two sorcerers, Shang Tsung and Quan Chi. As Quan sits with his fingers interlocked at a desk, looking furious, Shang Tsung sits cross legged on a chair, eying the egghead from across the office-like space, looking sassy and zesty as usual.

SHANG TSUNG: You seem to be upset.

Quan Chi turned his gaze toward his partner in war crime as he broke the silence.

QUAN CHI: What do you think? All my henchmen that I sent to kill that kid that stole my experiment failed and died.

SHANG TSUNG: Well, maybe you should have sent some actual fighters after them instsead of a bunch of nobodies.

QUAN CHI: Like who? All of the idiots that i hired to rebuild Ermac have either found new benefactors or have tried wasting me.

Shang Tsung sat in silence, the air was surprisingly cold as moment passed.

SHANG TSUNG: Well, thats because you haven’t had me at the time. See, if I was to hire a squad of warriors, they could retrieve our little science project with minimal issues.

QUAN CHI: And what makes you sure they wont backstab us? Given that those Earthrealm fools have already exposed you as nothing more than a con artist and a snake. I’m no different, for that matter.

Shang Tsung scoffed, a somewhat sinister laughter escaping his throat as he stood up and sounds of sparks emerged from his robes.

SHANG TSUNG: My friend. You forget that I am a scientist first and a charlatan second.

The sorcerer responded, as Quan Chi smiled menacingly. This would not be the last time we hear or see of the two.

[best-character-named-x-poll]

have you done your daily click

[lordofthestrix]

It appears that, according to my notifications, I just made 4.000 posts. Tumblr undeniably has its ups and downs but one thing I appreciate is its commitment to remind me of my unflinching determination to hold on to this blog against wind and tide.

[linuxgamenews]

SteamDolls - Order Of Chaos Demo: Updated and Available

SteamDolls - Order Of Chaos demo for the story driven stealth meets action adventure game is playable on Linux via Windows PC. All thanks to the brilliant minds at developer The Shady Gentlemen. Available to play now on Steam. Fresh from the spotlight at the 2024 Tokyo Game Show and a brand new trailer, SteamDolls - Order Of Chaos has released an updated demo on Steam as of October 3rd. It's also playable on Linux via Glorious Eggroll Proton 9-15. This new demo replaces the old “Concept” build from 2019 and includes the title’s prologue sequence. For both long-time followers and newcomers, this is available right away, There are also plans to move it to a separate page before the next Steam NextFest. Which will feature a special extended demo on October 14th. Originally teased back in 2019, the title brings together some familiar voices from the Metal Gear Solid franchise. Big names like David Hayter, Christopher Randolph, and Jennifer Hale also lend their talents to this project. While the voice acting is a huge draw, the game itself is described as a blend of stealth and metroidvania action gameplay, with a focus on brutal combat and exploration. You can check out the SteamDolls - Order Of Chaos demo trailer below!

SteamDolls - Order Of Chaos ► Demo Teaser

The title began as a comic book from the development studio and was successfully Kickstarted soon after. When it first launched, there was a small demo that gave players a taste of what was to come. Since then, the game has seen major upgrades, both in its visuals and gameplay. The original concept demo is now being retired, and this new prologue demo will take its place. An extended version will be available for Steam NextFest, giving players even more to experience. In the SteamDolls - Order Of Chaos demo, you take on the role of The Whisper, voiced by David Hayter (Solid Snake himself!). You’ll need to carefully balance stealth and combat as you make your way through a brutal, chaotic city. You can sneak around in the shadows or go all-in with powerful finishers, assassinating enemies as you go. The world is full of secrets, and you’ll have the chance to explore every dark corner and bloody scene. You’ll also be able to hack into terminals to uncover memories from the past and learn more about the world’s grim history.

Some of the key features you can look forward to include:

Stealth gameplay combined with platforming and intense combat

Brutal finishers to take down enemies in style

Hacking mechanics that reveal memories and hidden info

Stunning comic book-style 2D art mixed with 3D graphics

A massive world full of hidden secrets

A talented voice cast featuring David Hayter, Christopher Randolph, and Jennifer Hale

Hand-drawn cutscenes that blend seamlessly with 3D cinematics

So, if you’re into stealth, action, and exploring dark, detailed worlds, SteamDolls is definitely one to keep an eye on. So jump into the new SteamDolls - Order Of Chaos demo and get a taste of what’s in store. Playable on Linux with Glorious Eggroll Proton 9-15 via Windows PC on Steam.

[chowdergal]

Bad Everett, bad.

Even though he's on humanity's side, Everett still has some chaotic evil tendencies...

It's fine, Emile keeps him on a leash

[chowdergal]

This man will beat you at Monopoly™️

Drew this picture of Wendell Carroll in between pages for my webcomic! I can't wait to draw more of this monster for my story 🤣

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

God, I love Marvel Comics...

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.

He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.

“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.

Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.

He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”

The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.

He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.

“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”

But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.

He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.

The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.

He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.

His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.

Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.

He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.

“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”

The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.

She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.

The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.

Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.

Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier

Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.

He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.

Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.

Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.

Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.

“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.

Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.

He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.

The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.

Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.

He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."

“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.

Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.

He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.

The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.

He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.

For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”

Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.

She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.

Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”

Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.

He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.

His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”

The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.

He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.

The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.

Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.

The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.

“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”

Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.

He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—

“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.

Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.

He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”

Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.

The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.

“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”

Later, as she leans against the window of her penthouse, she finally sends a reply: You are so very reckless, my love. And I do enjoy breaking reckless little things.

[brattyspence]

sober thoughts | s.reid

summary: pining!reader makes a drunk call to spencer after going out with friends, and is aggressively trying to flirt with him. 

tags: reader is DRUNK! alcohol!! dont read if thats not okay!!, fluffy as fuck, spencer is the most gentle of gentlemen, pining!reader, reader wears makeup/dress/heels, spencer is lowkey bad at flirting but he shows affection in weird ways, one use of Y/N (sorry i know)

a/n: this has been bouncing around in my head for a while. sigh.

word count: 1.9k

masterlist

He was used to seeing you tipsy, if that was even the right word for it. 

You were friends, after all. Best friends, even. And the fact that he lived only a few doors down from the pub the team frequented made it stupid not to offer his couch to you after going out with the team. 

You weren’t a heavy drinker by any stretch of the imagination. Every now and then on a Friday night, you’d head out with the team and have one, maybe two drinks if you were feeling particularly adventurous–but you still didn’t want to drive home, especially when he was offering his home to you. Truthfully, you just liked getting to hang out with him. You liked getting to exist in his orbit and discuss a random topic late into the night. It had become normal for you, an excuse to do something together that didn’t revolve around work. 

What was not normal was the fact that it was a Saturday at 11 PM and you were really drunk, calling him. 

Your contact photo filled his screen, illuminating the dark room. You weren’t one to call, preferring the convenience of a text. Especially this late, which worried him a bit. He picked up quickly, tucking the phone to his ear.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Hey, Spencer?” It wasn’t your voice. “This is Molly, Y/N’s friend. I’m sorry to call so late. We’re out with some friends from college celebrating someone’s birthday, and she got… like, drunk drunk, kinda sloppy… and she’s been blabbing about you for a while. She wanted me to call you.”

“Oh,” he sighs. He runs a hand through his hair, preparing himself. “Can you put her on?”

“Yeah. Not sure you’ll get anything out of her, though. Here…”

He can hear the general chatter and chaos of the bar over the call. There’s some rustling sounds before you finally take the phone.

“Hi,” you say, your voice dripping with a certain kind of fondness. He can hear the smile through the screen. 

“Hey,” he replies. ”You having fun?”

“Oh, Spencer, I was… I haven’t heard your voice in so long. What’re you…” you trail off, lifting the phone from your ear to answer someone else. “Sorry. ‘S so loud in here.

He chuckles to himself. “I saw you yesterday.”

“Yeah, ‘nd that was… Oh, I can’t do math right now. A long time ago.”

“Are you okay?”

On the other side of town, you were sitting in a barstool, swiping your finger along the beads of condensation rolling down the glass of water in front of you. 

“Mhm. ‘M good. Fine. Drunk.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” he smiles. “Are you gonna be able to get home?”

“Uhh…” you pause. “I was gonna Uber… but then I thought that maybe… if you weren't busy… we could hang out…” 

He could vaguely make out dialog on the other end of the phone. Some kind of “Girl, this sounds really pathetic,” followed by a “Shhhh!” in two other drunken voices.

“But I could also make Molly order me an Uber,” you added. “‘S okay. Nevermind.”

“No, you're not getting in an Uber inebriated. That’s ridiculous.”

“‘M not inebriated.”

A background voice comes back. “Yeah, you are.”

Spencer sighs into the phone. “Just… send me your location, please? I’ll come get you.”

“O-kay. ‘M sending it right now, jus’ tell me when you-”

The call went dead before you could finish your thought, which he chalked up to some kind of drunken user error. A few seconds later a text came through 

You: dropped a pin

You: its molly again. let me know if you got this

He responded, relieved that you had someone looking after you, before getting ready and grabbing his keys. 

-

You were sitting on a bench outside the bar. The air was cool and crisp, but you were warm, your skin clammy from the alcohol. You had been mumbling something incoherent about Spencer, he’s just so good to me, Molly, and oh, god, I don’t know what to do with myself, and…

Molly, who had been trying to sober you up (unsuccessfully), was standing in front of you, arms crossed, listening to your incessant rambling.

“...’nd sometimes he talks to me, ‘nd I have no idea what he’s talking about but he’s so hot when he’s smart. You should hear, it, Mol’.”

Cars pass on the street behind you, filling the silence momentarily. Molly looks over her shoulder, scanning the street before turning back to you. “Alright. Be quiet. He’s here” 

“Don’t care.”

She puts her hand out to help you up, which you accept rising to your feet. You’re surprised by how unsteady you feel, but you focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

“I’ll make fun of you for this tomorrow,” she says. 

You only have a few seconds to grumble in protest before Spencer reaches you. He scans you quickly, chuckling to himself.

“You are a mess,” he says, amused. 

You feel slightly infantilized watching Molly hand over all your personal effects to him. You weren’t even sure when you’d put down your wallet and keys, much less where, but you’re thankful she picked them up and not someone else.

“Good luck,” She tells him. She pats your arm before turning back to the bar, leaving you alone on the street with him. 

“You okay?” He asks. You watch him shuck off his jacket, which he helps you slide over your arms.

“‘M fine,” you reply. “Warm.”

“Because you’re drunk.” He keeps his eyes trained on the zipper of the jacket, or really anywhere that isn't you in that dress. “Alcohol is a vasodilator. So you feel warm. But it's forty degrees outside, and hypothermia doesn't care.”

You pout at him, watching as he pulls the zipper tab up enough to shield you from the cold. Only then does he really look at you. 

“I wanted you to see my pretty dress,” you pout. Your words come out slurred still. 

You meet his eyes for a split second. He opens his mouth, seemingly about to reply, but quickly decides against it. He shakes his head as if to clear the thought.

“Come on. We gotta get you home.” 

“You don't like it?” 

“I didn't say that.” He tucks a hand under your arm as you begin back down the street, keeping you steady. 

“So you do like it?” You look over at him, your face more excited than he was expecting. 

“It’s very pretty,” he replies.

Your shoulder bumps his as you walk, seemingly unable to maintain a straight path along the sidewalk. The click of your heels against the pavement is uneven, despite your efforts to maintain some kind of composure, and unfortunately for you, he’s right, and it's freezing outside. You make steady progress down the block, placing all your focus on not falling flat on your face. Thankfully, he doesn't live all that far.

“D’you think I look pretty, too?” You ask, approaching the steps to his apartment.

“What are you trying to do?” he asks, looking down at you. He takes in the slight flush of your cheeks as the effects of the alcohol battle the chill in the air.

“I’m trying to flirt with you. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, you're going to be difficult all night, aren't you?” He sighs, ignoring the question. He pauses outside the door, keys in hand, and unlocks the door before guiding you inside. 

“You don't ever want to flirt with me.”

The door falls shut behind you with a clunk. The room is dark, with only the distant light from a lamp somewhere across the room illuminating it. You squint when he turns on the big light.

“That’s not true,” he says, quietly. If you weren’t hanging on to his every word, you might have missed it. He carefully unzips the jacket, tugging it off your shoulders and setting it on the table.

“So why won’t you flirt with me right now?” 

“Because you’re drunk,” He guides you towards the couch, his touch still careful as ever. 

You flop down onto the cushions. The leather sticks to your legs as you sit. Being the gentleman he is, he has already left pajamas out, his pajamas, you’d since claimed as your own, with the blanket you steal every time you stay over. 

“So what?” You begin working at the clasp on your heels, fumbling with the leather straps to no avail. 

“So, you’re drunk.” He repeats, reappearing in front of you. He sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of you, and hands you a pack of makeup wipes. “Do you need help with your shoes?” 

You nod. A soft breath of laughter escapes him as he leans in to help you take them off, setting them on the carpeted floor. 

“Spence,” you look at the pack of wipes. “Why do you have these?”

“Because every time you’re here you forget them,” he replies. 

“Oh.” You rip them open. “You don’t have a secret girlfriend?”

“No,” he replies, lowering your foot back to the ground. 

“You don't let other drunk girls sleep over?” You paw at your eyeliner, effectively smearing it around more than removing it. 

“I don't let anyone sleep over,” he says, taking the wipe from you. “Just you. Close your eyes.”

“Because you love me?” 

His fingers find the underside of your chin, gently tilting your face towards his so he can finish swiping away the last of your eyeliner. Maybe you’re blushing as a result of the alcohol warming your bloodstream, but the more likely answer is him, at this proximity. 

As soon as he’s done wiping your eyes, you open them again to look up at him. 

“You’re bold when you’re drunk,” he says, smiling. He sets the used wipe down on the table.

“Mhm. You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m not going to,” He says. “Sorry. Go get changed.”

“That wasn’t a ‘no’,” you say. You collect the clothes off the couch and slink across the apartment into the bathroom to change. You don’t bother shutting the bathroom door before slinking off the dress you were wearing and sliding on the pajamas he’d left for you. Once you finish, you collect your dress off the floor and make your way back towards the couch, settling right into the cushions as you frequently did on nights like this. 

You were formulating another complaint about his lack of reciprocation, but your thoughts were interrupted as he pulled the blanket on his couch over you. Your blanket, or at least one you’d claimed as your own during one of your nights spent here. He had already turned off the ceiling fan, which you’d always insisted off when you slept over. You followed him with your gaze as he turned the lights off, swapping them instead for a smaller, softer light somewhere in the kitchen, remembering the way you’d always insisted he leave a light on somewhere, just for you. Your phone was already charging on a side table, your heels sitting nicely by the door, your keys on his key holder, evidence of you, everywhere, details that were distinctly for your comfort. Maybe you had missed his signals. 

“I think you do love me…” 

He reappeared a moment later, crouching in front of you with that look. He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Go to sleep.”

“And I love you. And I called you because I wanted to tell you that.” 

“You really need to sleep it off. You’re saying things you don’t mean.”

“But I do mean it,” you whined. “I swear. Ask me again tomorrow.”

“You won’t remember this tomorrow,” he laughed. 

“But I will. I promise,” you replied. “No bedtime kiss?”

Of course, this time you did pick up the way he looked at you. 

“No, honey. Maybe tomorrow.”

[harrysfolklore]

Hi could you please write something about Charles Leclerc x famous reader attending the f1 75 live event and jack whitehall decided to address the fact that she's always been more famous of Charles in a funny way

i love doing charles and famous reader so much

The crystal glasses clink softly around you as Jack Whitehall's voice echoes through the venue. You're nestled comfortably in your seat at the Ferrari table, Charles' arm draped casually across the back of your chair, his thumb absently stroking your shoulder.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we need to address the elephant in the room," Jack announced, pacing dramatically. "We have actual royalty here tonight - and no, I'm not talking about Prince Charles of Monaco over there." He gestured to Charles, who was already starting to blush.

From your seat, you squeezed Charles's hand under the table as he tried to maintain his composed smile.

"We have YN, global superstar, winner of literally every music award invented, and somehow - somehow - she's dating a man whose biggest achievement this year was finishing a race without Ferrari messing up his strategy."

Charles dropped his head, shoulders shaking with silent laughter while you covered your mouth, trying to stifle your own giggles.

"It's fascinating really," Jack continued, "YN's last stadium tour had more attendance than the entire F1 season combined. She's got more platinum records than Charles has pole positions. When they go out, people ask him 'Oh, are you YN's boyfriend?' and he just has to nod and say 'Yes, I'm the Ferrari driver who can't catch Verstappen.'"

You leaned into Charles's shoulder as he wrapped an arm around your waist, both of you red-faced from holding in laughter.

"But look at them - they're adorable. She shows up to every race wearing Ferrari red, probably the only person still believing in Ferrari's strategy besides Charles himself. It's true love, people. Though I have to wonder if she wrote 'Crash Into Me' before or after watching Charles' qualifying sessions..."

Charles buried his face in his hands while you rubbed his back soothingly, both of you unable to contain your laughter anymore.

As the laughter around you settled, Charles grinned, his arm still comfortably around your waist. He leaned in closer, his voice playful but sincere. "You know, despite all the teasing, I really enjoy being your less famous boyfriend."

You looked up at him, surprised by the honesty in his tone. "Oh, do you now?"

"Absolutely," he said, his smile widening. "It's actually kind of nice to be the one who gets to sit in the crowd while you’re on stage, getting all the attention. Makes me feel… special, in a way."

You chuckled, nudging him gently. "I think you're just here for the perks. Free front-row seats to concerts, and I guess being in the Ferrari pit lane doesn’t hurt either."

He pretended to think it over, then smirked. "Okay, maybe a little bit. But mostly, I just love being the guy who gets to hold your hand when you're not on stage, and be the one you turn to when you need a break from all the chaos."

You smiled softly, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "Well, lucky for you, you’re stuck with me, you softie."

Charles grinned, pulling you a little closer. "I wouldn’t have it any other way."