#this is so filthy even by my standards honestly so now i must rush to bed

[dictionarywrites]

burst & shatter

For @veliseraptor​, specifically inspired by this post. 

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4k. Complete. Frostmaster. The Grandmaster insists that he needs to get Loki ready - for what exactly, Loki isn’t sure. Getting him ready, however, includes one of the few acts Loki’s never partaken in, and would rather have avoided. Enemas. Pain play. Extremely dubious consent. 

“Listen, honey,” the Grandmaster says, his voice soft and warm, and immediately, fear makes itself known within him. Loki feels his innards freeze at the gentleness in the Grandmaster’s tone, at the featherlight touch of his gloriously warm hands against the side of Loki’s jaw, and he bites his lip to keep from whimpering. It is as yet early in the day, and Loki wishes he had ordered his lunch to his rooms instead of straying out into one of Sakaar’s beautiful dining halls. Ordinarily, the Grandmaster isn’t here at this hour, entertaining some other of his hobbies, like sleeping, but—

It is plain that the Grandmaster is here simply to seek Loki out, and Loki wonders what torture he could possibly have devised, that would inspire him to come directly to Loki. The Grandmaster cares not at all for patience, when it doesn’t suit him.

Despite his fear, Loki’s eyes flutter closed as the Grandmaster’s thumb dances hot and pleasant over his chin, teasing over the white skin there. It oughtn’t feel so good, the Grandmaster’s touch, oughtn’t intoxicate him so when he knows that it so often precipitates great pain, when the Grandmaster will torture him upon a whim, but—

You crave subjugation, whispers a voice in his ear, echoing within him, and no, no— Loki is so focused on his inner turmoil that he doesn’t actually hear what the Grandmaster says. He only hears the end of the sentence, hears the Grandmaster finishing with, “—Right?”

“Right,” Loki echoes obediently. The Grandmaster smiles, the expression indulgent, and he pats Loki’s cheek.

“Excellent, Lo-Lo, that’s—  You’re just, ha, you’re just the best. You’re— You know you’re my favourite, right?”

“So you’ve told me, Grandmaster,” Loki murmurs, and the Grandmaster’s grip tightens on his jaw, so tight that Loki feels the bone creak, and he cries out in pain.

“Whaddya mean, uh, whaddya mean like that, sweet thing?” the Grandmaster asks. Despite the agonising vice of his grasp, his tone remains sweet and mild, and the juxtaposition makes Loki – for a wild second – want to burst out laughing, even as his bones threaten to crack beneath the Grandmaster’s hand. “You… What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you,” Loki says hurriedly. “I believe you, Grand— Grandmaster. I merely meant… It’s hard, to…” Norns, what can he say? Every word he grasps at flees from his silver tongue, and the Grandmaster clucks his own, looking down at Loki with sympathy shining in the golden ring of his irises, his fingernails digging cruelly into the meat of Loki’s cheek.

“Aw, I get it. I, uh, I really do. Nobody’s ever told you how good you are. How… Pretty.” Good? No. Loki is not good, and no one has told him so – no one not out of their mind. But pretty? People have most certainly told Loki how pretty he is. The word is wrapped up in his apparently feminine features, in the wideness of his hips and the baldness of his chin, in the pinkness of his lips and the depth of his seiðr, and it grates on him, even now…

“No, Grandmaster,” Loki lies. “No one before you.” The Grandmaster releases Loki’s jaw, and Loki slumps in relief, heaving a breath into his lungs, even as the Grandmaster’s hand slides lower, palming over the side of Loki’s neck.

“We’ve got to get you, mmm, nice and clean, first,” the Grandmaster whispers. “Right? Right?”

“Right,” Loki echoes, for a second time, and just like that the Grandmaster is dragging him along toward the Grandmaster’s quarters. As they go, the Grandmaster carelessly unbuttons Loki’s clothes, dropping them aside, and Loki knows better than to protest, letting himself become steadily more naked as they move through the corridors, leaving his clothes behind him in some parody of the Midgardian tale of Hansel and Gretel.

Will he be eaten tonight?

Perhaps.

The Grandmaster draws Loki into his bathroom, which is palatially wide and tiled in shining gold, and Loki reaches out, sliding his hands over the Grandmaster’s chest, feeling the heat of his body, feeling the immense power hidden beneath so deceptive a frame. “Tell me again,” Loki murmurs, his voice sultry, as he looks up at the Grandmaster’s eyes through his eyelashes. The Grandmaster is only two inches or so taller than Loki, but for these purposes he leans in slightly, ducking his chin to emphasise their difference in size. “About tonight.”

The Grandmaster chuckles, dragging his hand through Loki’s hair too roughly to be anything but pleasurable, and Loki groans at the glorious drag upon his scalp. He feels the grease he wears in his hair bubble away like evaporating water, and he closes his eyes as he feels his hair settle in a thick, dark cloud around his shoulders.

“I need you… Pretty.”

“Pretty,” Loki repeats, the word acrid on his tongue. The Grandmaster beams, his beatific smile lighting up his face as he pushes Loki back onto an abruptly conjured chair, and Loki watches as a chest creeps across the room on a thousand little legs, dropping itself down before the Grandmaster and opening itself up.

“This is the Luggage,” the Grandmaster murmurs, with no small amount of affection, and Loki watches as he strokes over the side of the gilded wood. The chest purrs at the touch, and Loki keeps his own hands firmly in his lap. The thing feels distinctly odd – it is a sink of magic, where the natural energy in the air seems not to reach. “I, uh, I picked it up a long time ago…”

He draws out a few cannisters of pigment and some make-up brushes, and Loki feels himself sag in relief. Just paint, for his face… Yes. That’s nothing to be frightened of. Loki raises his chin, and he lets himself relax, lets himself enjoy the warmth of the Grandmaster’s fingers as he rubs primer into Loki’s skin, the lotion pleasantly cool against his flesh.

“You know what I love about you, Lo-Lo?” the Grandmaster asks sweetly.

“My arse?” Loki offers, and the Grandmaster laughs, genuinely laughs. For the barest moment, Loki feels dangerously, completely, at ease. He smiles at his own joke as the Grandmaster leans in, pecking Loki’s lips with a short kiss, and Loki feels his chest tingle with heat.

“Mmm, I, uh, I do love that,” the Grandmaster murmurs, but then he shakes his head, taking up a brush and running it through some light red pigment, beginning to dust it onto Loki’s cheeks. The sensation is far from unpleasant, the way the brush settles gently against his cheeks and highlights the position of the bone there, and Loki inhales, taking in the dry, chalky scent of the make-up. “No, no, kitten, what I, hmm, really love… is how I don’t need foundation. You’ve just got such lovely skin, so clear and clean!”

“Thank you,” Loki says, waiting for the catch. The Grandmaster smiles, showing his teeth.

“I guess that’s the, ha, that’s the benefit of wearing skin that isn’t real in the first place, huh?” There it is. Loki sets his jaw, staying in place for a moment as the Grandmaster tips his chin further up, beginning to dust more pigment against the lines of his jaw. “Why don’t you, mmm, why don’t you put that pretty, ha, that pretty blue skin on display, huh?”

“I will if you will,” Loki murmurs. The brush freezes against Loki’s jaw, and the Grandmaster stares him down. It was a stupid thing to say, a stupid thing— but the Grandmaster’s lips are quirked, and instead of offence, amusement shines from his features.

“Aw,” he murmurs, tilting Loki’s face to the side and brushing against the other side. “Guess you got real friendly with Ord when he was visiting a few months back, huh? Figures he’d, mmm, tell me some of my secrets. Did you tell him some of yours?” Ord Zyonz – the Gardener – had only visited Sakaar for a few days, but he had been fascinating. The Grandmaster isn’t ordinarily jealous, but he’d certainly been jealous of the time Loki had spent speaking with the other Elder – ever more so when Loki had asked questions about horticulture. It had been strange indeed, seeing Ord and the Grandmaster interact. Loki knows that none of the Elders are truly siblings, and yet the dynamic had been unmistakable.

“As many as I’ve told you, Grandmaster,” Loki murmurs softly.

“Careful, Ki-Ki,” the Grandmaster murmurs, his gaze hardening for a second. “The, uh, the sarcasm is only cute when peppered, mmm, sparingly in conversation.”

“Yes, Grandmaster,” Loki whispers.  

“Careful for this bit, honey,” the Grandmaster says, and Loki is silent as the Grandmaster daubs kohl under his eyes, then begins to paint his eyelashes, brushing them out to be thicker and darker. The scent of the mascara is stronger than that of the dried pigments, being as it is wet, and Loki inhales, taking its chemical tint deep into his lungs. “You like this, huh?”

Is it a trap? Loki doesn’t know. It’s never possible to know.

“Yes,” he says, at length.

“Good boy,” the Grandmaster purrs, and the patronising lilt to it makes Loki’s stomach do an awful flip. There is nothing stopping him from fleeing – this, Loki knows. There is nothing keeping him bound in this chair he sits in of his own will, naked to his skin, with the Grandmaster painting his skin to be prettier.

He could run. He could flee, and he could fight, and he could— But what is the point? The Grandmaster would catch him before he so much as reached the edge of Sakaar City.

When he sees pencil of a lip liner, he parts his lips, and the Grandmaster chuckles as he traces the line of Loki’s lips, drawing them to be bigger, further enhancing the natural cupid’s bow of Loki’s upper lip— Why not just make him shapeshift? Loki doesn’t know. He certainly doesn’t ask.

“Now, honey, I’m, ha, I’m really trusting you here,” the Grandmaster says as he fills in Loki’s lips with a waxy lipstick, and Loki furrows his brow slightly, but he cannot talk, not while the Grandmaster is painting his mouth. “You’d— Golly, you’d better not cry between now and the big event.”

“I won’t,” Loki promises as the lipstick is set aside, and inside him, he feels a storm surge. Why would he cry? Why would he cry?

“Good, good,” the Grandmaster murmurs softly. “Up you— Get up, honey, get up. Hands on the side of the bath – that’s a pretty kitten.” It’s undignified. To go from sitting up in a chair to resting with his hands on the edge of the Grandmaster’s ridiculously large bath (fit for twenty people, if not thirty), his backside bared to the room— But then, the contrast is undoubtedly something he’s meant to be aware of. Loki catches a glimpse of his painted face in one of the mirrors on the wall, and he takes in the colours that have been painted onto his features. The highlights of his jaw and cheekbone are darker, in red, but the lipstick and the eyeshadow about his eyes are blue, darkly blue…

Loki hates that he likes it. The Grandmaster will dress Loki in his clothes, will paint Loki in his colours, and Loki not only accepts it, not only allows it – he likes it. Nausea tugs at his insides, and he stares down into the bath’s black bowl, which is stained with glitter, to keep from looking at his own reflection.

“See, we need you clean for this,” the Grandmaster purrs.

“I can clean myself,” Loki offers. “With my seiðr?”

“Mmm, no.” A finger slides over Loki’s cunny, which is dry and unprepared, and Loki whimpers, stiffening slightly. It wouldn’t be the first time the Grandmaster had decided to fuck him without giving him time to relax, without letting Loki’s own arousal ease the way. “Such a, ha, such a cute little noise. I just— Golly gee, honey, have I, uh, have I told you lately how much I love this little, mmm, this little quim of yours?”

“Last night was the last time, Grandmaster,” Loki mumbles, feeling humiliation burn on his skin, and the Grandmaster chuckles. The fingers pull away, and then return wet: the Grandmaster circles the pucker of Loki’s back entrance perfunctorily, then two fingers slip right in at once. The burn makes Loki grip tighter at the bath’s edge, groaning quietly as the ring of muscle is breached faster than it ought be.

“Well, I’ll tell you now: I love it. It’s just so… Convenient.” That’s an odd way of putting it. Loki turns his head back, trying to get a glimpse of what the Grandmaster is doing, but the Grandmaster murmurs, “Eyes front,” and Loki obeys like the dog he is. The Grandmaster’s fingers scissor within him, making Loki grunt, but then they pull back, and—

“What is that?” Loki demands as he feels the end of the pipe slip into him. It’s scarcely an inch wide, but it slips within him with ease, pressing inside, and a flared edge stops its press at the edge of his pucker… “Is that a nozzle?”

“Aw, wow. Yeah, that’s right, sweet thing. You know, that’d be such a fun game – me putting things in this, mmm, this lovely little ass of yours and you guessing what I’m shoving in there.”

“Fun,” Loki echoes, shuddering at the very thought. With a playful partner, undoubtedly, Loki would enjoy the wager, would enjoy the test of his own senses, but with the Grandmaster? He would put the most unbearable things within him, and delight in Loki’s attempt to make sense of the torture. “This is— This is an enema, then?”

“You’ve had one before?” the Grandmaster asks, sounding the slightest bit disappointed.

“No,” Loki mutters, despising that it is the truth.

“Good!” Loki opens his mouth to respond, but then there is water gushing into him, and he a tremor wracks his entire body. The sensation is indescribably strange. Firstly, the water is hot – so hot that it must be steaming, but Loki’s body is hardy indeed, and although it jolts to receive such hot liquid within it, it is no worse than the Grandmaster’s cock. Secondly, the… Sensation. It is one thing to feel the pulse of a prick within him, to feel spend paint his walls, but this? This is so much more, all at once. Water seeps into Loki’s body with such alacrity that it is alarming, smoothing easily over his inner walls and filling him from within, and Loki whines, gripping so tightly at the bath tub he worries the black marble might crumble beneath his touch. He feels his back arch, feels his weak knees quake, and the water does not stop.

No, no, it continues to gush within him, filling him so completely that Loki cannot help the breathless noises that escape his panting mouth, and he resists the urge to press his face against his upper arm, because if he does, his make-up will be smeared by the touch. “Aw, that’s… That’s really something.” Loki heaves in a gasp as the Grandmaster’s fingers trace the length of his curved spine, and still, still, the water is piped inside him! Will it never end? “You, huh, honey… You just take it like a champ.”

“Thank you, Grandmaster,” Loki says reedily, ashamed of the weakness of his own voice. The heat of the water, and the heaviness, is bordering on the line between uncomfortable and painful, and then the water seems to speed its press within him, furthering its descent into Loki’s bowels, and Loki feels his body cramp in protest. He groans at the pain, as his desperate, fervent muscles are pressed to breaking point, and he feels the need to release this weight somewhere – but to whence?

The nozzle of the enema bag keeps him carefully plugged, meaning not even the slightest bit of liquid is able to escape him. He feels that he will burst, that he will split into pieces, but he doesn’t, no… No, instead, his innards give way. They let themselves be filled by this marauding flood, and Loki can feel the absurd, the obscene, stretch of his belly as the water weights it down.

The Grandmaster’s hand slips beneath Loki’s body, and Loki can only manage a gasp as protest when his fingers play over the unmistakeably round curve to Loki’s belly, and Loki clenches his eyes tightly shut.

“You’ve been pregnant before, right?” the Grandmaster asks softly, and Loki grunts as he begins to massage Loki’s swollen belly in easy, counter-clockwise motions – it barely soothes his cramping muscles, but proves to relax him enough that yet more awful liquid can insinuate itself within him. “How does his compare?”

“It doesn’t,” Loki mutters between clenched teeth. “That felt natural. This is anything but.”

“Aw, I think I’ll get you to change your tune on that one before the, uh, before the night is out.” The fear bursts anew, blooming within him like a toxic flower, but then the Grandmaster’s tongue is slipping over Loki’s slit, and Loki wails. When had he become aroused? When had wetness begun to gather at the entrance of his quim, thick and slick and open?

The Grandmaster laps at the entrance there, and the conflicting sensations drive Loki wild: the painful cramps of his belly, the desperate clench of his pucker around the enema pipe, the awful, gentle touch of the Grandmaster’s hand against his swollen belly, and now his tongue, bringing glorious ecstasy amidst pain and discomfort.

The water stops. Loki could cry with the relief (You’d better not cry.) at the wonderful cease of it, and then the Grandmaster draws the nozzle out all at once, too-fast, too-fast, burning and he’ll leak… But the Grandmaster plugs him up just as fast, a plug that seats itself much too easily inside Loki’s body, its flared base keeping the awful water within him.

“On your back,” the Grandmaster says. “On the floor.”

Slowly, shakily, Loki slides down to his knees, and moving? Moving is the most unbearable thing he’s ever felt. The swell to his belly offsets his centre of balance, and he can feel the awful weight of the water within him, feel it slosh and shift inside his innards, and he whimpers as he drops heavily onto his back. His belly gives a jolt like an over-filled balloon, a sick, liquid movement assailing the surface of the taut skin, and Loki whines.

“Aw, that’s just… Mmm, isn’t that just a sight for sore eyes?” the Grandmaster asks in a purr, and his hands slide over Loki’s spread thighs, his gaze roving over Loki’s body. “That’s— Aw, honey, kitten, Loki… That’s beautiful.” The Grandmaster sets both of his hands on Loki’s belly, pressing against the taut skin and making Loki squirm beneath him, feeling the water shift in desperate need of somewhere else to go, and finding nowhere. “I’m gonna fuck you, okay?”

“Grandmaster,” Loki whines, disgusted by the desperation in his voice, and the Grandmaster shushes him like he’s little more than a frightened animal – and really, isn’t that what he must be, in the Grandmaster’s ancient eyes?

“It’s okay, Lo-Lo,” he says soothingly, shifting closer, between Loki’s legs, and Loki wishes he could get away, wishes he could move at all with the awful weight of his own belly pinning him on his back, and he stares down at its curve, ashamed at the heat within him. His cock, swollen and erect, is pressed right against the swell of his own belly, and whenever it jerks or jolts, it serves only to press its little head against Loki’s own skin. “It’s okay, it’s okay… I’m gonna, ha, I’m gonna make it all better.” The Grandmaster’s cock lines up against Loki’s entrance, and Loki feels his own cunt clench, as if inviting him in, but no, no, Loki is so full already, he can’t possibly—

The Grandmaster fucks inside him in one slick, easy movement, and the water within Loki is displaced. Loki screams, his eyes closing tightly as he arches his back uselessly, unable to lift his own belly from the floor, and he feels the heat of the Grandmaster’s length within him, feels his own innards shift and cramp even further with the additional intrusion.

“I don’t— ungh. I don’t see how this is getting me clean,” Loki mumbles, and the Grandmaster laughs, beginning to thrust his hips in long, measured movements, obviously intended to make Loki’s belly shift and slosh as much as possible. Loki imagines he can even hear it, hear the liquid within him—

“Well, sometimes you gotta get a little, ha, a little dirty before you can get clean, sunshine,” the Grandmaster replies, and Loki feels the ugly, creeping heat of humiliation, of true debasement, on his every inch of skin. He wishes he could crawl out of his very flesh, but he cannot: he can only spread his thighs slightly wider, encourage the Grandmaster further within him—

“Please,” Loki whispers, and he hates himself for it, but the Grandmaster smiles, and rewards him. One hand begins to massage Loki’s swollen, taut belly once more, pushing it up slightly, and his index finger and his thumb take hold of Loki’s straining cock, rolling it between the two. Loki keens, feeling himself come.

When had that gathered within him, that awful tangle of tightened muscles, that gathering of tension? It matters not: it all releases at once, Loki’s cunt clenching senselessly around the Grandmaster’s cock, and Loki is left writhing, no longer entirely aware of his very thoughts – he is grounded in physicality, and for a few seconds he is free from the awareness of it all, knows only the Grandmaster’s hands and his cock and the weight of his own body—

The Grandmaster’s spend is nothing like the weight of the enema. It paints hot at Loki’s inner walls, and Loki feels so dizzy, feels like he might melt into wetness, mingling with the filthy water inside him.

The Grandmaster lifts him like he weighs nothing at all, and the release of the water is the most relaxing thing Loki has ever experienced, leaving him languid and much like liquid in the Grandmaster’s arms, unable to do anything but cling to him, else surely he shall fall to the ground—

“And you didn’t even cry,” the Grandmaster murmurs, his tone singing with praise, and Loki sighs as the Grandmaster’s knuckles brush against his chin. “So pretty.” Loki is too insensate to protest, even inwardly.

“For you,” he mumbles, and he leans into the hand that weaves into his hair. “What did I… What must I be cleaned for?”

“Aw, honey,” the Grandmaster purrs. “For the party.”

“The party,” Loki repeats dully, not really comprehending. “Of course. Please kiss me.” The Grandmaster chuckles, and he licks his way into Loki’s mouth, his breath as incandescently hot as the stars, and Loki leans into it, convinces himself, for a second, that this is what he wants. His every inch of skin feels like so much melted ice, and he wishes this sensation would last forever, this wonderful languidness of his limbs.

“Can’t wait to, ha, see everybody take you apart,” the Grandmaster whispers. “You can’t ruin the make-up yet, of course, but later, when you cry for the pain… Gee, aren’t you, ha, aren’t you gonna look pretty with your mascara running?”

The illusion of contentment shatters like glass, but Loki is too relaxed to so much as stiffen. “Yes,” he agrees, his tone achingly casual, and the Grandmaster’s laugh rushes over his skin like water.

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS | CHAPTER 2

Rating: Explicit. 18+

‼️TW: Reader is EIGHTEEN! Recreational drug use, smoking and alcohol consumption, deeply internalised self-loathing, very questionable moral standards. Daddy kink taken half-seriously. BDSM themes in later chapters - explicit content will come with it’s own TWs. FIRST PERSON POV.

Summary: You’re Peter’s classmate, a child of rich and famous but uncaring parents. Getting paired up for a lengthy project with the boy was an interesting turn of events and you don’t know whether to feel blessed or cursed when you develop, seemingly, a perfectly normal, harmless crush on Tony Stark. Fueled by feelings of inadequacy and boredom, your life spirals out of control - and you’re lucky your newfound friends are there to pick up the pieces even if you cannot find it in yourself to believe these amazing human (and not so human) beings voluntarily give you more than a fleeting glance and an offhanded thought. And they brought cake!

A/N: Bad girls are sad girls! Always wondered what goes through the mind of a spoiled, rich but intelligent and perceptive teenager? Have you found yourself craving that adrenaline rush, the danger of a forbidden fruit? Okay. That was cheesy as hell. Gross.

Let’s try again. Sarcasm? Check. Vine references? Hell yes! Crude humour? Check. Blunt honesty? Double check. We’re living in a Lana del Rey song, ladies.

The author doesn’t actually condone codependent relationships in real life. This is a filthy little fantasy. Enjoy, deviants.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @vozit​ @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings​

Beta read by the lovely and patient @miscmarvelwritings  ! She deserves all the love 💙

Peter woke me up at eight AM the next morning like the little shit that he was, demanding I make him pancakes. It wasn’t the first time I’ve had the joy to experience him in the morning and he knew exactly how to antagonise me enough to make him the special pancakes he liked so much. They had become kind of a ritual whenever he stayed over at my house, which was quite often - teachers liked me enough to pair me up with one of the most sensible kids for any projects that couldn’t be done alone by yours truly on her own.

I put on my yesterday’s dress, applied moisturizer and obediently trotted behind an excitedly mumbling Peter. The kitchen was large, beautiful and delightfully empty of any resident superheroes. I’ve indirectly crossed paths with all of the tower’s residents hanging around Tony, but I’ve yet had to speak more than polite niceties to any of them. 

Spying a bowl of boiled eggs and some sort of weird salad alongside half burned toast on the counter, I suddenly understood why Peter demanded his pancakes. I strictly instructed the disaster child to stay away from my cooking process and set to work with one ear listening to his ramblings and a headphone in the other. 

A set of thumping footsteps appeared behind me as I was pouring the batter for the first pancake. Their owner loudly sat down next to Peter, sighing, groaning, generally making “I’m not a morning person” sounds.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes,” Peter’s tone was way, way too chipper.

“‘mrng,” The Sergeant grumbled. “Who’s this and why is she making pancakes?”

I turned around, spatula at the ready. “It’s me,” We’ve actually met before, but Barnes had left before I could even come over from my side of the work bench to say hello.

He nodded in acknowledgement after giving me a suspicious once-over. “One of Stark’s science children. I’m James but you can call me Bucky,” His voice sounded rough and gravely, and he clutched a coffee cup half the size of my head.

I snorted. “Science child, sure,” It wasn’t half-bad actually. I wisely choose to ignore the part of being Tony’s. No matter how hot the man was, I wasn’t anybody’s but my own, thank you very much. “Go get the bananas, Nutella and maple syrup, fellow science child.”

Peter scrambled to follow instructions as I plated the pancakes and cut the bananas into neat little rings to fill the sweet circles with. A tablespoon of Nutella, half a sliced banana, wrap, garnish with powdered sugar and pour maple syrup generously on top. I really didn’t see how this could be difficult but any and all attempts to teach Peter how to recreate my masterpiece always ended up in an absolute mess. I turned around to ask Bucky if he wanted any. The look of a man starved answered all my questions.

“You’re a goddess,” Peter moaned around his mouthful, nose smudged white with the powdered sugar.

“Gross, chew first then talk, you neanderthal,” I scoffed, prepping more batter for the second batch of pancakes. I wasn’t sure if everybody would show up but figured it would be rude to exclude them from the sheer magnificence that were my pancakes. I was just that good.

The music in my ear drowned most of Peter’s disgusting chewing noises, thankfully. My second batch vanished into thin air, inhaled by the two males like the garbage disposals that they were. Peter, in particular, ate an alarming quantity of food and I was surprised how he managed to stay so skinny. His daily eating schedule resembled the Hobbits.

More people appeared, this time acting less surprised regarding me standing at the stove. Hawkeye, Black Widow, Scarlet Witch and her brother, all of them wandered in wearing sleep attire with various amusing prints. Thankfully, they mostly kept quiet or chatted with Peter - I would have definitely grumbled if someone tried to talk to me. As far as my body was concerned it was still the middle of the night.

“PANCAKES,” A booming voice announced and I shuddered at the sheer intensity and devotion contained in that one word. Thor.

“Please use your indoor voice,” I snapped reflectively. My brain caught up with what I just did so I hastily backtracked. “Sorry, I’m a bitch in the mornings.”

The blonde man chuckled, coming over to poke his nose into my flurry of pour-flip-fill sequence. Then, with all the grace and manners of a prince, he dipped one (1) large finger into the jar of Nutella and wandered off with it stuck in his mouth. With this turn of events the Nutella was bound to run out sooner than expected.

I turned around, annoyed confusion in plain sight. “The fuck?.. That’s gross, don’t do that,” Finding his brother (adopted!) sitting next to Thor, wearing a haughty smirk, finger still in his mouth. So Loki turned into his brother to steal Nutella from a jar. I sighed. Nobody even batted an eye. “Your alien germs are in there now, double ew.”

“Alien germs? Where?” Bruce entered the kitchen with a tablet under his arm, wearing Hulk themed pajamas, Captain America in tow. I was honestly on the verge of breaking down into hysterical laughter. Domestic Avengers wasn’t something I’d expected to see or experience, ever, much less be a part of. It took a moment for me to remind myself that they were people, too, and each of them was entitled to their own quirks. 

“America, egg-splain,” Peter muttered under his breath, giggling. “Loki stuck his hand in the Nutella jar,” He pointed at said jar. “She got grumpy,” Peter pointed at me. “Don’t make her grumpy, please, I want more pancakes,” And turned his pleading puppy eyes in my direction again.

“This is indentured servitude,” I pointed my spatula at the little shit. “You just had, like, ten.” But I made more batter nonetheless. I must admit it was kind of cool, seeing the earth’s mightiest defenders so relaxed. And Pete being happy, that was just… The best. I don’t know how to explain it. His eternal cheerfulness was highly contagious.

Chuckles filled up the room, the adults chatting and bickering amongst themselves while they patiently waited for their own breakfast. 

“Do you need some help?” Bruce approached me after stopping to fetch himself a cup of tea. It smelled strongly of tangy herbs and honey.

“I need more Nutella and bananas,” I admitted, surveying the sheer amount of people I had to feed. I didn’t doubt the Captain and two Asgardians had an appetite to match Peter’s which meant a literal extra set of condiments was required. Thankfully, Bruce fetched them for me, coming to a stop next to me. “Anything else?”

“You know, I tried making these with Peter and he just ended up with powdered sugar and chocolate all over himself,” I mused, noting the way Banner was carefully observing the assembly of a pancake. “You think Doctor seven-phds can manage to add a few toppings to a pancake without causing a disaster?“ 

Bruce rolled his eyes fondly, bumping me with his hip. "I’m no Clint Barton when it comes to cooking but at least I don’t burn my toast like Steve,” True to his word, his hands made swift motions of filling, wrapping and plating each individual pancake. They were almost as good as mine albeit more messy. I had lots of practice though. We finished off a batch in companionable silence, sounds of the team and my music playing in the background. 

I didn’t notice when I started swaying to the rhythm, catching a confused look from Bruce. I brushed back my hair, revealing a wireless headphone in my ear and he chuckled in understanding. “What are you listening to?”

“Right now? Kings of Leon,” I said, leaning towards him so he could hear the chorus “Use Somebody” currently occupying my right ear. 

“I like them, too,” He said, his cheek gently touching mine. His hands slowed on the pancake, a soft hum vaguely reminding me of the song’s melody emanating from his throat. “What else do you usually listen to?”

“Mostly heavier stuff, but I have a whole separate playlist dedicated to mid-2000s bops,” I answered. “I’ve heard I’m quite old school when it comes to music.”

“Well, I am an old man, so…” Bruce grinned mischievously. “But my guilty pleasure is Lady Gaga,” He admitted with a laugh.

I laughed, too. The image of his dancing in his lab to Born This Way was too much for my brain and I hung my head, fighting giggles. Bruce bumped me with his hip again, faking a pout. “Okay, okay, that was a fucking hilarious image, you go dude,” I finally powered through my struggle to contain laughter. “My own guilty pleasure would be… Umm… Lana Del Rey, I guess.”

Bruce made a vague noise of confusion. I took a brief break from mixing the batter to dig out my second headphone, presenting it to him and switching to a song. “This is what makes us girls”. Despite the fact I have never stolen a car or had a close female friend, the nostalgia was real. “Carmen” followed after the first song and I silently thanked whatever deity that “You can be the boss” was taken out of Spotify - I don’t think I was prepared to share that kind of information with a lab partner. An older, handsome lab partner. Wait… Where did that come from?

“I like it,” He said after the song ended and my more usual stuff began playing. “It suits you, I think.”

I groaned. “Really? I think it’s edgy,” Hiding away the embarrassment, I passed him a tray of freshly baked pancakes, occupying his immediate attention.

“You’re an old soul,” He gave me a lopsided smile. I saw a very faint blush tinting his cheeks, the kind of blush that had me wondering about the meaning behind his words. 

I gave an attempt at a smile in response, the left corner of my mouth barely tilting up. We talked some more about the rock music we shared in our earphones. I had a lot of 80s hair metal and 90s grunge in my playlist. Bruce was not a Curt Cobain man but enjoyed the works of his legacy, Marcy Playground. 

A tan hand wormed its way between me and Bruce, snatching a handful of banana slices and disappeared just as swiftly. “Tonyyy,” Bruce groaned, picking up another banana to replace the stolen pieces.

The spatula in my hand became a weapon as I blindly aimed at the target behind my back. A loud “ow” indicated I hit it. When I turned around, Tony was clutching the side of his face, a hurt look in his eyes and cheeks stuffed full of stolen goods. I stared him square in the face, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the fact that he was shirtless - the arc reactor glowed brightly in the middle of his toned chest. Fuck.

His chest was honestly what I was aiming for. I constantly kept forgetting how short he actually was. There was this one time when Tony had to put his arms around me to steady a piece of tech - he felt huge, hard and enormous around me. 

“What’s that for, Princess?” He finally chewed through his food and found his voice.

“For being a Tony,” I retorted. “Stay away from my workspace and wait for your breakfast like everybody else.”

“Hey! This is my kitchen,” He whined immediately, like the adult man that he was. I nearly cried from how adorable his face became, eyebrows scrunched up. “I don’t want to wait! And why does he,” Tony’s finger accusingly pointed at Bruce, “Get the bananas?!”

“Because he’s Brucie-bear,” I stuck my nose up in the air when Bruce’s arm wrapped around my waist. “He’s my science father,” I stuck my tongue out at Tony, seeing Bruce’s triumphant smile. Banner used every opportunity to get back at Tony’s incessant sass. 

The gleaming in Tony’s eyes should have alarmed me. “But he’s not your science daddy,” Tony’s flirting was accompanied by a salacious eyebrow wiggle and Peter’s screech of “OH MY GOD!" 

It took me every ounce of willpower to not flush. It was one of those rare times that I was at a complete loss of words. Thinking on the spot, I gave a very meaningful look to Bruce - thankfully, he got the gist and returned an equally filthy smirk back. Tony gaped.

"Is this how they are in the lab?” The Captain’s quiet voice leaked horrified amusement.

“All.The.Time.” Peter’s resonating groan was followed by Romanoff’s laughter.

We went up to the lab after breakfast. Thankfully Tony stopped his dramatic bitching when I served him my pancakes, scarfing them down much like everybody else. So me and Pete were accompanied by one (1) happy engineer, all three of us tinkering away on a robot that we were supposed to present in our science class in a month. The focus that was required to solder was immense and our usual banter was missing, replaced by an occasional request for a specific tool or a water bottle.

It took a few hours to get the dirty job done even with Tony’s help (technically he wasn’t supposed to but neither me nor Pete had the heart to forbid him from it when the man looked so content and happy soldering away). By the time I uncurled from my spot on the bench, my back was in knots and my dress had oil stains and holes all over it. I immediately went to the nearest water bottle, finishing half of it in seconds, picking up my phone to see if I had any important messages from my mother.

None.

Just a message from Bruce.

I tapped on my phone, idly scrolling through the Instagram app, liking some pictures of people I barely knew and keeping up a general appearance of being very busy. When the ringtone started playing, it took me a whole five seconds to understand it was, in fact, coming from my phone - I certainly wouldn’t put something so… Outrageous as my main tone.

Banner had discovered the power of the internet. You Can Be The Boss played loudly, and it played from my phone and Bruce was calling me. I picked it up, turning around, fighting the incoming laughter. “Yes, Brucie?" 

To say that Tony’s and Peter’s faces were scandalised was nothing. The boy’s face was such a deep shade of red, I started worrying about his blood pressure and Tony’s mouth hung open limply, like he was witnessing the second coming of Christ. 

"Is Tony sufficiently traumatized?” Judging by the breathless tone of his voice, Banner was resisting a mighty laughing fit of his own.

“Oh, absolutely,” I happily chirped.

“Good, keep it up. Come to my lab before you leave,” Banner snorted and then, realising what he’d done, promptly hung up, the tell-tale beginning of a giggle fit abruptly interrupted by a dial tone.

I put the phone in my bag, gathering the rest of my things with a look somewhere between innocence and indifference. At least, I hoped it was - my mind kept jumping between the engineer’s ridiculously scandalised face and the way his mouth went slack, lips moist and soft and plush. That’s a very dangerous trail.

A very dangerous trail I couldn’t resist exploring in the solitude and privacy of my own bedroom, at home.