You would think that maybe Tony would be genre-savvy with the whole renegade-destruction-robot-apocalypse thing, but no
"I am a woman, a mutant, a thief, an X-Men, a lover, a wife, a queen. I am all these things. I am Storm, and for me, there are no such things as limits."
"Dammit Steve, hold still"
READY TO GET WRECKED CHILDREN
I would love to tell you that I spent even a full minute resisting the urge to paint this classic coffee joke with Hawkeyes, but I did no such thing: you just know they’d be assholes about coffee.
(if you love me at all, click it to see it bigger)
All the Phil Noto appreciation.
get them out of here sam
The King beneath the mountains
The King of carven stone
The lord of silver fountains
Shall come into his own
I made printedsoot Calvin and Hobbes style Leverage OT3 fanart for Christmas. Tiny, grumpy, upside-down Eliot Spencer might be one of my favorite things I’ve drawn all year.
it’s a good thing there are two hawkeyes in the world
#”where are you taking my stuff?” ”this stuff is my stuff.” ”you had that much stuff over here?”#those lines fucked me up man#fucked me up#this scruffy golden-hearted fuck up and the no-nonsense partner who ruthlessly calls him on his shit and teaches him what collar stays are#and jets off to L.A. with the dog because that’s easier than outright saying ”i’m coming back‚ dumbass‚ don’t get dead”
keep the cushions and the couch too, ok pal?
In sleep is the only time Bucky doesn’t have to look at Steve through his lashes; he does it anyway. Always has. There’s too much of him otherwise, he hurts to look at, he’s too bright for Bucky’s uncovered eyes and Bucky wonders, some days, if that isn’t why he’s always finding trouble. Moths are drawn to flame and Steve burns, in sleep and out of it, with passion on some days and fever on others but always, always, with hope — even now, grief etched along the defeated curl of his body, he sips in every breath like he believes wholly in what he’ll do with it. It makes Bucky struggle with his own inhalations because he’s the moth, he’s been the moth as long as he can remember and it’s all he wants: to be stupid, to be young, to spread his wings and burn alive in Steve’s fire.
Steve shudders, shifts; his arm escapes from where it’s been huddled trapped beneath his chest and drops down towards the floor. His fingers curl loose around the tender flesh beneath Bucky’s elbow and Bucky opens his eyes wide for once — to prove it to himself. To see. Maybe he’s less a moth than that guy from the stories Steve liked in school, wax wings and a dangerous flight pattern; Steve’s circulation is for shit and still Bucky can feel himself melting beneath his chill-fingered touch, dripping through the cracks in the floorboards. His eyes ache, and his chest, and his pulse speeds up because it’s harder labor than he’s ever done, to look at Steve here in the darkness. He lets slip a small sound and Steve’s face shifts just from that, a soft frown appearing in the lines along his forehead. The back of Bucky’s throat itches from him, from all the jagged want he’s swallowed.
Please, Bucky thinks. Bucky thinks: please.
and maybe i’m too blind to see, the line was always crossed in me
As you can see, I’m being very productive….