Loki and Clint

Clint: oh no, that little furball with those huge black eyes is looking RIGHT at me, Loki help— Loki: ignore him, birdbrain, focus — fine, since you insist: *whispers* I told Clint his archery form is cuter than Thor's biceps and now he's not talking to me.

A god on his knees weeping over shattered porcelain - truly the mightiest of Midgardian rituals. Tell me, does watching masculinity crumble into delicate little blue shards excite you as much as it disgusts me, little bird?

It's verity 🥹