Loki: Do You Want Your Popcorn Sweet Or Salty?

Loki: Do you want your popcorn sweet or salty?

Bruce: *gazing at Thor* I want it like my fiance.

Loki: We don’t serve ugly popcorn.

Thor, hitting on Bruce: you come here often?

Bruce: Thor, this is our house. We’re been married for five years.

They’re both big eaters,shh…  +bunch of doodles  yep that’s wardruna logo on thor’s shirt. 

The Pym family tree in the comics is so weird tbh...

A quick look at one of my Thruce WIPs:

If Romanoff notices its shabbiness, her poisonous green eyes sweeping over the inside of his home, she doesn’t say anything. “For a man who’s supposed to be avoiding stress,” she says dryly, “you picked a hell of a place to settle.”

“Was stress-free before you came,” he says, and approaches his workbench. Keeping his hands busy will distract him. “You caught me at a bad time. I have two more potions orders to fill, and I’m on a deadline.” He gestures at the Starktravel™ Shipping Portkey with one hand, sealing vials of Wolfsbane with the other and packing them into the container. The motion keeps his hands from clenching too strongly, from fear of breaking the vials. (Even though they’re charmed against that. Nothing is unbreakable. He knows that too well.)

“It can wait.”

“No, it can’t. This order is due in three minutes.”

She settles daintily on the edge of his office chair, watching him pack the vials. “What did you brew?” she says.

He stuffs the vials into the holes in the packing crate, voice curt as he focuses. “Wolfsbane. Sense-enhancing potions. Nerve replenishers, Polyjuice, Sight Restorers. Other stuff.” Illegal stuff. Things in high demand in low places, that certain people would pay large sums for. Things that, to the untrained eye, look perfect; things that only Bruce knows are flawed on a molecular level, and will backfire in would-be criminals’ faces. He does what he can.

Even with his back to her - which may have been a stupid idea, but he didn’t care at this point - he can sense Romanoff’s raised eyebrows. “Those are some difficult potions,” she muses. “Your skills are truly being wasted out here.”

“What a coincidence,” Bruce says. “So is my time.”

…

He takes a deep breath. Holds it.

“You’ve been out of the loop for a while, Banner,” says Romanoff. “The Aurors discovered Project Renew five years ago. They’ve been arresting and executing the research team nonstop. Ross was the last of ten or eleven officials.”

He breathes out. “Ten,” he says. “It was ten.” He could name them in his sleep.

“You’re safe now,” says Romanoff.

“Am I?” he croaks, slumping backward into his chair. “Am I really?”

She nods solemnly. “You are,” she says softly. “And at Hogwarts, you’ll be even safer.” He weighs her words, and her words weigh on him. Outside, muffled by distance, a dragon roars into the star-clotted sky.

“Only if I can go to the moors when I need to,” he says at last. “And I want a pay raise.”

…

The year that Bruce had run away from the United Kingdom, retreating to the mountains of Romania, Thor Odinson had gone missing. It was all over the papers: the son of the Head Auror, Odin Borsson, vanishing without a trace on a bleak Thursday morning. Thor had still been presumed dead when Bruce had left.

And now he’s here, with the heady tang of static electricity surging forth from him, missing an eye and at least a foot of flowing blond hair, and…

Thor’s gaze lands on him. “Oh, hello,” he says cheerfully, extending an enormous hand. His voice has deepened to a husky baritone. “You must be Banner. I’m Thor, the Defense professor.”

Bruce takes his hand and shakes, and a gentle jolt of something runs up his spine. “Call me Bruce,” he says, without knowing why. “Nice to meet you.”

And Thor’s smile widens.

Deep within him, the dragon stirs.

Jen: [about Bruce] don’t worry. He likes your butt and fancy hair.

Jen: I know. I read his diary.

Thor: He thinks it’s fancy?