#thor/reader

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Mob Rules - Playtime with Thor

Playtime | Thor x Reader | 2.4k words

When you and Thor make an early exit while waiting for the boss' meeting to be over, he suggests a little playtime.

Warnings: 18+ AU with d/s themes, open relationship/free use. Semi-public sex (in car), use of butt plug, cockwarming, cum marking/creampie, anal, anal play. Little bit of Stucky x Reader at the end. Rated S for smut and F for filth.

Masterlist | Mob Rules | Poly Fics |Bucky | Steve

It was boring, worse than boring, mindless, endless, the food terrible, the conversation none existent. You gave a petulant sigh, tapping your manicured nails against the side of your crystal champagne flute.

You turned to Thor, one of two bodyguards assigned to you by Sir and Sarge, and rolled your eyes. He was your designated escort for this a formal tea party held by one of the gang’s latest business associates and while the garden was very beautiful and the sun lovely and warm, you were still endlessly bored. At least you got to spend more time with Thor though, you hadn’t had a chance to spend much time with him yet, one on one, you were mostly occupied with Sir and Sarge, although they were starting to allow the other gang members to approach you. 

In fact, you’d slept in Andy’s bed last night, a congratulatory prize for the lawyer after getting one of the dealers off a minor charge the day before. Andy was gentle, but firm, and you’d slept well afterwards, waking naturally when the sun came streaming through the windows. Naturally, but alone. There were normally so many people around that you hardly got a moment to yourself so, enjoying the luxury of privacy, you took a long hot shower before heading back to your own room. 

As soon as you opened the door you knew that Sir and Sarge had already been looking for you. Your bed was still neatly made, but your clothes for the day were placed on the end of the comforter. A light blue summer dress, strappy heels and matching lace underwear. They always knew just what to pick to make your day. 

Sir and Sarge had left instructions for you to dress and join them in the garage for 1pm, ready for this ridiculous attempt at a tea party, and had left a discrete black box alongside your dress. Inside was a small silicone butt plug, bright pink and very soft as well as a new tube of lube. Excitedly you’d dressed in all your new gifts and clenched your legs together, waiting for something to happen. You were sure from the bluetooth symbol on the side that they had some wicked plan to toy with you during the day. But nothing happened. 

Thor caught your eye again and you gave your secret signal to leave, standing politely and excusing yourself until you were out of ear shot. 

It felt good having Thor following you through the garden and into the courtyard of the mansion. He was huge, taller even that Sir and Sarge, with dark blonde hair that fell about his shoulders. Despite his muscular stature he had a friendly, welcoming, face that had instantly put you at ease when you were introduced. That, alongside his booming laugh, made you think he must have been some sort of jovial god in another life.

Thor walked half a pace behind you, head swivelling to make sure no one was following, or watching, who shouldn’t be. Half of his hair was in a messy bun, the rest looked stuck to his neck, the day was so hot you were desperate for the cool of the air conditioned car.

“God, that was shit, can we go home now?” You whined as soon as you were out of earshot, and Thor gave a low chuckle in answer. 

“Not yet, Bambi, the bosses still have some work to do.” He laughed but it was indulgent and kind. If you were bored he must have been falling asleep, stood watching without taking part. 

“But I’m bored,” you pouted up at him while he opened your car door, looking around once more before following you into the dim interior of the limousine. 

“Good job I brought something to entertain you then,” he smirked and, suddenly, you remembered the plug. 

His face lit with a smile at the same time your eyes widened, “that was from you, wasn’t it?” 

“Correct,” he pulled his phone from his pocket and flicked through the apps, grin widening and finger dragging up the screen. You squirmed, shocked, as the plug began to vibrate. The feeling shot through you instantly, your body going slack and giving in to the pleasure. 

“Does that feel good, Bambi?” His voice dropped lower, a rich, rolling tone, still a lilt of his Australian accent despite years spent in Brooklyn. 

“Uh huh,” you mumbled, biting your bottom lip and digging your fingernails into the leather of your seat. 

Thor watched the expression on your face change, the plug was exciting, it had your skin prickling with need, but it wasn’t quite enough. He kept his eyes trained on yours as you began grinding into the seat beneath you, slipping a hand up your thigh -

“No. Don’t touch yet. I’ve had to watch you for so long, I want you to wait too.”

He reached forward and tugged you into him, arranging your legs on either side of his hips until your wet panties were plastered against his growing cock. It felt wonderful between your legs, pressing into your wet folds and aching clit. 

Thor’s hands found your waist and allowed you to circle your hips just once, searching for friction, before he lifted you again. 

“Need some help, Bambi?” He smirked, confident and cocksure, “be a good girl and ask for it.” With one hand he kept a tight hold of your waist, with the other he freed his cock, the head bobbing through the black material of his trousers and leaving a trail of precum. 

Since moving in with Sir and Sarge you had yet to see a dick you didn’t love, even if you had only been allowed to sample a very select few. Every one was different, delicious, filling in their own right, and Thor’s was no exception. You were sure your fingertips wouldn’t touch if you tried to grasp him, the shaft thick and heavy, tapering slightly to the flushed head. You wanted it, now, inside you, stretching you, the perfect match to the insistent buzzing of the plug in your hole. 

“Please, Thor, please can I have your cock?” You wanted to look at him, you really did, you knew the sort of manners expected of you as the gang’s girlfriend, but you couldn’t tear your eyes from the swollen head of his cock. “Plug me up, fill me up, please?”

He let out a deep, rough, laugh and squeezed himself harder, milking a single drop of precum from the tip that slowly pearled and fell down the length of his shaft. You squirmed, letting out an embarrassing mewl. 

The plug stopped and you balled up your fists in frustration at the total lack of stimulation. Throwing caution to the wind, you lifted yourself and rubbed your pussy against him, dipping down enough to tease the head over your covered entrance, pushing against the fabric.

“So needy,” he commented, more to himself than to you, his own gaze was locked on your thighs, straddling his own, the sheen of your arousal making them slick, and his cock, disappearing between them and under your dress. You bunched it up further, holding the skirt with one hand and using the other to grip his shirt for leverage. 

“Please,” you pouted, batting your eyelashes. 

“Fine, you can sit on it.” He conceded, pushing your panties to one side, and allowing you  to slowly lower yourself, inch by inch, his cock getting wider, the stretch a burn that had you begging for more, bouncing slowly until you were fully seated. 

You dropped your dress in favour of dipping your fingers between your legs and feeling the way he’d stretched you, pushing up on your lower stomach. 

“The bosses were right, you do feel like heaven.” He observed, cupping your cheeks, “you sit tight -” he winked, “and I’ll turn your little toy back on for you.” 

Your mouth dropped into a surprised ‘o’ as the vibrations started again, stronger this time. With Thor’s cock buried so deep the plug pressed even harder against your walls, vibrating into your pussy as well. 

You circled your hips, attempting to press your clit to the cold belt of Thor’s trousers, but he held you firm, slightly away from his body. 

With a smirk he slid his hand under your dress and pressed his thumb to your clit, a deep insistent pressure. 

“Please.” You begged, eyes wide. 

“Let’s see how long it takes you to cum like that.” He leant back and spread his arms over the seats. 

“Thor, that’s not fair.” You moaned, the sensations too overwhelming to form any more of an argument, though you could tell that he was struggling too by the way his jaw was clenched. 

Despite his lack of movement you could feel the coil of your pleasure tightening, your walls clamping down on his and your hole squeezing the plug deeper. 

“Thor -” you whined, trying to move again but finding hands on your hips again, holding you down on his cock, impossibly deep and with no escape. You could barely twitch, your hands fisted so tightly in his shirt that it pulled against his muscled chest, the buttons straining. 

“Come on my cock, Bambi, let me feel that little pussy and then I’ll give you my cum.” His eyes met yours focussed and unrelenting, his body remaining still despite your efforts to writhe and rub yourself. 

Your orgasm hit you all the harder, the pulsing of your walls and clit were relentless with no respite from the feel of him, no push or pull just the feeling of being entirely full. Thor continued to smirk, brushing one long lock of blonde hair behind his ear before lifting you and spinning you around, pushing you over until your hands hit the floor. 

Embarrassment flooded you. From this position he had full access to you, he’d be able to see the way your hole still greedily gripped the neck of the plug, pulling it in and out as your orgasm faded. He’d be able to see the drip of your own arousal as it spilled from between your puffy lips, and he wouldn’t be able to see your face,  he didn’t need to after all, you were just a toy now, easily tossed about for him to use. 

“Such a good fucking girl, aren’t you Bambi, so sweet, bet neither of the bosses ever put you in this position did they?” He brought a large hand down to smack the globe of your ass, it stung, but you couldn’t help the flood of arousal either. “I’m gonna use your little holes and then I’m going to plug you back up so you don’t forget that you belong to all of us.” He growled, “you took too long to come to me, Bambi, I won’t want this long again.” 

You felt him move and then the solid weight of his cock against your lips, but he didn’t thrust in. Instead you could feel his hand as he moved it up and down his cock at pace, his knuckles catching on your clit and making you cry out. And then he was tugging at the plug, pulling it from your hole with an obscene pop and replacing it with the head of his cock. With as much energy as you could muster you tried to move backwards, but he didn’t give you anymore, just the wide head keeping you open. For a moment you wondered why he’d stopped, and then he gave a guttural groan and you felt the hot splash of cum painting you from the inside. 

He picked up the plug, the silicone rolling in the cleft of your ass cheeks briefly before he began to tease it in again -

“Well, well, well.” The door to the limousine opened, flooding the dark space with light. You couldn’t see, but you could tell by the polished shoes that slid past you that Sarge and Sir had finished their meeting. “What’s going on here?” Sarge asked. 

“Thor was -” 

“Not you, Bambi. We only want to hear you make those pretty little noises.” Sir snapped. 

“Just having some play time, boss, Bambi was bored, weren’t you sweetheart?” Thor laughed, plunging the plug in and you groaned again, grateful to have the toy back inside even if it wasn’t buzzing. 

Sarge hummed, “sounded fun, mind if we join in?” He didn’t wait for an answer before your world was spinning again, still on the floor you were now at least face up, looking up into Sarge’s twinkling eyes. 

“You good down there, Bambi?” He asked, smoothing his hands across your arse and down past your pussy. His thumbs rubbed your lips teasingly. 

“Yes, thank you, Sarge.” 

He laughed, “you like being full of cum, do you? We’d better give you some more then.” The tent in his trousers was unmistakable, how long had they been listening to you?

Sarge removed the plug, wiping it on the handkerchief from his top pocket before putting it in your mouth, “you keep that warm like the good slut you are, because it’s going right back in when we’re finished with you.” 

Sarge began to stroke himself slowly, rubbing and cupping your pussy with one hand until you were mewling again, your begging muffled around the toy. 

“Should gag her more often,” Sir said, sliding along the bench seat to be closer, his own cock rock hard and dribbling precum. 

Thor, though he’d tucked himself away, was pressing his heel to his crotch again, unsure if he’d be in trouble or not, and that thought alone had you desperate for one of them to fuck you. Being caught had been a lot more exhilarating than you’d thought it would be. 

“Move, gonna cum.” Sir pushed against Sarge and grabbed one of your thighs, pushing it back until you were almost bent in half, your hole gaping slightly without the plug to cling to. Like Thor, Sir pressed his head into your hole and came with a grunt, thrusting a little before pulling back pushing the cum in with his fingers. “Shit,” he panted. “Fill ‘er up, Buck.” 

Sir angled you back towards Sarge just in time for him to push inside, thrusting as he came until he was bent over you, fucking his way through his orgasm. You cried out as his hips rubbed against your clit perfectly, sparking new pleasure through your whole body. 

“Good girl,” he moaned, “good fucking girl.” His eyes were glazed when he pulled back, plucking the plug from your mouth and pushing it back in easily. “Fuck, that was a good idea Thor. Wonder how many she could take before it starts coming out again.” 

Sir and Thor laughed while you gazed up at them. You weren’t sure you could manage everyone without getting to cum at least one more time, but you would certainly try!

[prince-l0ki]

(Gif by @thorodinson)

Stormy Weather

Summary: It’s your first thunderstorm since moving into Avengers tower. You go to the common room to find comfort, and you find someone unexpected.

Pairing: Thor Odinson x Reader

Tags: Gender neutral reader, Pre-Age of Ultron, Fluff

Word Count: 1,000

A/N: this is something i wrote about 2 years ago that i finally ended up fixing up and finishing. i hope you enjoy it! <3

(AO3)

Shit.

You awoke with a gasp, the loud bang ripped you from your slumber. The sound of your heartbeat thumped in your ears.

Thunder.

It was your first thunderstorm since moving to Avengers tower. Your room sat on a ridiculously high floor in the skyscraper. That seemed like a good thing, until now. You were terrified of thunderstorms. You were terrified of any loud noises, really. A laughable thing to be afraid of as an avenger. You were able to hide it for the most part, suppressing the flinches that usually came after any loud sound in earshot. Earplugs on missions were a godsend.

You sighed as you rolled over and looked at your alarm clock to check the time.

3:24am

Another loud clap of thunder made you jump. Then, the child in you took over. When you were younger, your bedroom was in the attic. So when a storm came you gathered your pillows and blanket and went down to the living room on the first floor and made your home on the couch.

Grabbing your pillow and blanket, you made your way to the common room. You didn’t expect to find anyone there, of course. It was 3am and everyone else was usually asleep or in their room at least.

When you crossed the threshold, you were surprised to find Thor standing at the large windows overlooking the city. The lights were off, only the glow of the city lights illuminating the room.

“What are you doing awake?” Thor asked, having detected your presence. He turned to face you and his eyes fell to the pillows and blanket in your grasp. You felt a flush rising to your face.

“I uh- the thunder… it woke me up.” You responded quietly.

Thor took a few steps towards you. Your gaze fell to the floor, far too embarrassed to look at the god.

“Are you afraid?” He asked. That’s it, you were going to die of embarrassment. Right here in the Avengers tower. At least Tony would throw you one hell of a funeral.

You nodded meekly. “Yeah, I uh.. I don’t like loud noises.” You responded quietly. You couldn’t lie to him, but you wish you could. Telling the god of thunder that you were afraid of thunder was probably the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you, let alone while in your pj’s.

“Why are you up?” You inquired.

“I could sense the storm. I love watching the thunder storms on Midgard, Asgard never has any. Except for me of course.” He responded with a small smile. At the moment you looked up at him, a flash of light and a loud bang thundered from outside.

You jumped instinctively and squeezed your eyes shut. Feeling strong hands on your arms, you opened your eyes.

“Hey, it’s alright.” Thor looked at you with concern. His steel blue eyes entranced you, finding it hard to look away.

Butterflies swarm in your middle. You always had a little crush on Thor, something you pushed away as being unattainable. He was a literal god, and you were just you. But now that he was so close to you, it was hard to push your feelings aside.

“T-Thanks. I’m gonna uh…” You trailed off and gestured to the couch. Thor nodded and his hands fell back to his side. Your socked feet padded over to the couch, placing your pillows on the side. Wrapping the blanket around your shoulders, you sat down and pulled your legs up towards your chest.

You closed your eyes and sighed. Trying to calm your rapid heartbeat. The cushion dipped with weight beside you. Another loud bang shook the tower. You hid your face in your knees. Then, you felt Thor’s hand on your back, rubbing in circles. The storm was getting closer.

At the next loud clap of thunder you practically leaped into Thor’s arms. “Sorry.” You apologized, but you couldn’t get yourself to move away from him.

“There’s no need to apologize.” You felt his arm wrap around your waist, while his other hand was combing through your hair. His chin on the top of your head, your face pressed against his muscular chest.

He started to tell you stories about Asgard; him and Loki as children, his mother, his father. You could hear the rumble of his voice through his chest. His heartbeat a steady thrum. You sat like that for a while. Every once in a while you would flinch from the thunder, but you quickly calmed.

Each clap of thunder got quieter and fewer between as the storm passed. Once all you could hear was the patter of rain against the windows, you pulled away. Thor smiled down at you. “Are you feeling better now?” A blush crept upon your cheeks.

“Yeah, thanks.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Your mouth went dry.

“Of course, I’m glad I could help.”

“I should uh, I should get back to my room.”

Thor walked with you to the elevator. The ride to your floor was quiet. Your gaze stuck to the floor, missing the glances the man kept making at you. As the elevator dinged, the two of you stepped out.

“Oh um, you didn’t have to walk me to my room.”

“It would be my pleasure, as long as it is alright with you.”

Once you reached the door to your suite, you turned to face Thor. “Thank you for helping me, I really appreciate it.”

Thor smiled at you. “I’m glad to have helped. Now get some sleep.”

You nodded and entered your room, closing the door behind you. The red numbers on your alarm clock gained your attention.

5:12am

Damn, that sucks. Good thing tomorrow was an off day. You flopped onto your bed, pulling the covers over you. As your eyes grew heavy the past hours replayed in your mind. That night your dreams were filled with Asgardian architecture and a certain blonde haired god.

[lokisbirdofhermes]

You are the owner of The Honey Trap: a New York meadery, and who should walk through your door but the sons of Odin, having landed on Midgard after Ragnarok, seeking the richest nectar of the gods that you can offer to them. Companion pieces. Post Ragnarok, pre Infinity War AU.

Donate to my Ko-Fi, if you feel so inclined.

[samsexualdeancurious]

My Bride

Pairing: Thor x Reader

Prompt: Wedding night

Written for a Demon Patron request

Old Norse:

- minn elksa - my love

- minn brúðr - my bride

---

You can’t help a shriek of laugher as Thor sweeps you up into his arms. Your train is so long that it still brushes the ground, even with Thor’s added height. It’s the most elegant, extravagant dress you’ve ever worn and when Frigga had offered her own dress to be altered for you, you’d almost cried. Now, Thor is carrying you across the threshold of his quarters, where you know one of the next steps of the night is taking the dress off.

Your body thrums with nerves and excitement as Thor sets you on your feet beside the bed. Huge, gentle hands sweep up your arms and you sigh softly against his mouth.

“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs and you nod, lifting your own hands to cup his face.

“Undress me,” you order, eagerness overpowering the nerves.

He murmurs a curse and immediately obeys. The dress hits the floor with a soft sound. Thor’s hands find your hips and suddenly you’re being laid out on the bed, his huge body hovering over yours.

“I’m going to take my time tonight.” His voice is a low rumble against your cheek. “Explore every inch of you, minn elska. Minn brúðr."

[rana030]

Pov: you're reading fanfiction and suddenly y/n starts to call him daddy

[bethsvrse]

me staring at my ceiling after y/n does the most FLABBERGASTING thing ever

[noonecareslol]

When it hits 9 pm and I pull out this combo:

Ps: I have severe writers block. Help

[12welveinched]

Me after clicking a p link thinking it was a fic rec.

Jumpscare.

[bvrnesher]

❝ 𝒫ull 𝒪ut 𝒢ame ! ❞ ― marvel !

summary: just what I think of each of these characters when it comes to pull out 🗣

— 𝒮teve ℛogers ;; He likes to think he’s good at it. And honestly? He is. Respectful, controlled, painfully self-aware. The second he feels himself getting close, he speeds up, grits his teeth, and pulls out right on time—usually on your stomach or chest. Gentleman. HOWEVER—deep, deep down? He does have a breeding kink. He just won’t admit it. The day you whisper “it’s okay, I’m on the pill”? He hesitates just long enough to ruin his perfect record.

Rating: 10/10. Practically flawless. Just a little too responsible.

— 𝒯ony 𝒮tark ;; This man cums like he’s paying rent. He could pull out. He knows how. Won’t. He’s like, “You knew the risk,” and just lets go. Finishes inside you with a smirk, kisses your temple like he didn’t just pump you full, and asks for another round like nothing happened.

Rating: 7/10. Could pull out. Ignores it. Still makes it hot.

— ℬucky ℬarnes ;; NO WAY this man is risking it, but for the sake of the game, let’s say he tries. He means to pull out. He really does. But the second you tighten around his cock when he’s close? Too late. He’s already twitching, already filling you up. Feels guilty after, mutters apologies, but ask him for another round and he forgets all about it.

Rating: 5/10. Tries. Fails. Feels bad. Does it again.

— 𝒯hor 𝒪dinson ;; Sweetheart himbo with the pull-out instincts of a golden retriever. You tell him “pull out,” and he’s like, “But why, beloved?” while thrusting deeper. His idea of affection is cumming in you until it’s leaking down your thighs and calling it “a gift from the gods.”

Rating: 0/10. He means well. That’s the problem.

— ℒoki ℒaufeyson ;; Oh, he can pull out. He just won’t—unless it’s to tease you. Otherwise? He stays buried until the very end, groaning in your ear about how good you feel while he fills you up. He wants to watch it drip out. It’s about power. Ownership. Ruin. You say “pull out”? He says “make me.”

Rating: 0/10. Wicked.

— 𝒫eter 𝒫arker ;; He’s studied the theory. He wants to pull out. He really does. But the second things start getting too good? He’s whimpering, cock twitching, finishing inside you before he even realizes it. Apologizes mid-orgasm and offers to run to the pharmacy still inside you.

Rating: 3/10. He tries. He panics. He fails.

— ℰrik 𝒦illmonger ;; Pull out? Babe, he hears you say it and smirks. Doesn’t even pretend to listen. Holds your hips down, grinds in deeper, and finishes inside like he means it. Tells you “You better take all that,” like it’s a challenge and a threat. Might pull out once—just to finish on your face and call it a reward. But most nights? He’s filling you up like it’s his personal mission.

Rating: -100/10. He’s doing it on purpose. You’re not walking right tomorrow.

[nikkirimizi]

A Sweet Taste (Thor/Reader) 🍰

Summary: Reader bumps into Thor on their way back home and the two (attempt) at interacting with one another. They're not so strong with words, but give them a frying pan, and suddenly, they're magic.

Rating: Teen

The noise of the incoming train had been muffled by the earbuds, playing their usual playlist that practically defined their morning routine. Within the train station, they looked through their bag, making sure everything they picked up earlier at the market was fully accounted for.

As they quickly boarded the train, they grabbed a pole from the middle, watching as the door closed behind them. The motion of the train started out slow before moving full speed, leaving them to their phone until their eventual stop. At eye level, they were met with the approach of someone far too close in front of them, but they humbly ignored the person and kept scrolling on their phone. That was, until a warm hand was placed on their shoulder.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58138027

[endofthelinegang]

shall I? SHALL. I.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

AU

Mob Rules

[waltermis]

I miss them 🥹🥲

[lokisbirdofhermes]

You are hopelessly attracted to a very nice, cute guy at work, but you're too shy to ask him out, so you hire Thor Odinson, the Date Doctor, to teach you how to seduce the guy at work. But as the two of you try to find a way into the other guy's heart, you find yourselves falling for each other instead. Thor/Reader AU. Loosely based on Hitch (2005) and The Ugly Truth (2009).

[sanjisprincesss]

Shoutout to the fictional characters who live rent free in my head, paying for nothing but emotional damage.

[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.