22. She/he/they. soft butch? Bi af...
Content you will find on this blog:
Marvel, The Old Guard, the Witcher, Stranger Things, Hannibal, Queer Eye, She-Ra, the Dragon Prince, Kipo, ATLA, Legend of Korra, The Owl House, The Amazing Devil, Supernatural, Sense8, Sherlock, Game of Thrones, Harry Potter, Fantastic Beasts AWTFT, Merlin, Good Omens, Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard, Umbrella Academy, Teen Wolf, Dexter, Encanto
@anniesafangirl *is so ready to reenact the scene from Pretty Woman*
[on date] *winks flirtily* and btw i am soooo haunted by the ghosts of my past mistakes and how preventable their consequences were. do you want me carnally
what if we kissed and we were both literal or figurative fragments of the people we used to be trying to rebuild our sense of self? what if we both had magic that came out of great personal sacrifice and we kissed? what if one of us was the grimiest man alive and one of us was an extravagant little circus guy and we kissed?
The rain is pouring down around them, blood and water soaking into his suit so hard that he’s being weighed down by it. It doesn’t really matter like this - his back pressed to the street, Marc holding him down. His sword’s gone, lost somewhere outside of the world where it’s just Marc’s face and the black clouds above him. Their masks are gone, shattered on the concrete, and it feels a lot less like Moon Knight against Ronin and more like Marc and Clint, stuck at an impasse.
“The minute you let go, I’m going to go after him again,” Clint says. “And I’m going to kill him.”
“I can’t let you do that,” Marc says. His lip is bleeding, red running down his chin and dripping onto Clint’s chest. His fault.
“Why? You don’t give a fuck about Robbins,” Clint says. “I let him go and he fucking - keeps hurting people. You want that?”
“You don’t kill people, Clint,” Marc says.
“Yeah, well, maybe I do now,” Clint says. He doesn’t want to think about what Marc’s saying between the lines (that it’s not about Hood at all) because he can’t afford to, because then Marc’s stupid plan of ambushing him in the streets and fighting him will have worked. His chest aches and it’s got nothing to do with the kick to the ribs he’d gotten earlier.
“Give it up,” Marc says. “Or I’m not moving.”
“Guess we’re stuck here then,” Clint says.
Marc’s hands go around his throat and Clint thinks dimly for a moment that he’s going to have his neck snapped but then they’re kissing and Marc’s fingers slide up to tangle in Clint’s damp hair instead, pulling him even closer than they are already. It’s blood-tainted and painful and impossibly soft, and Marc doesn’t let go even when Clint pulls the dart off of his belt and sinks it into the gap in his armour.