Bring Back 2012 Avengers Fan Fics But With The Thunderbolts

btw i’ve decided michael afton wears glasses. he doesn’t like wearing them. in fact, he’s self-conscious about it. and he only wears them occasionally to work and when he’s alone with you!

see drabble below ↓

the clock on the wall ticks past 2:45 am when you hear the faint sound of the door creaking open. michael’s home. you don’t need to ask how work went; the tired shuffle of his boots is enough to tell you it’s been a long night.

you’re sitting on the couch, a worn-out book in your hands that you’ve probably read a hundred times already. the house is quiet, save for the distant hum of a fan, and the way the dim light from the hallway filters into the living room. the air feels heavy. when michael steps into the room, you can tell he’s exhausted. his hair is messier than usual, his shoulders a little more slumped, but what catches your attention immediately is the pair of glasses perched on his nose. the same glasses he rarely wears outside of when it’s just the two of you. he looks... a little too good in them. "hey," you say, glancing over the top of your book. “haven't seen those in a while.”

he gives you an unreadable look, but you can see the subtle awkwardness in the way he gently pushes them up his nose, like he's trying to make them disappear. "yeah, well, i don’t really like them," he mutters.

you raise an eyebrow, setting the book down in your lap, "they're cute."

he doesn't respond. crossing the room, sinking heavily down onto the couch next to you. you can smell the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and sanitizer on him, his technician’s outfit looking a bit rumpled. he keeps his gaze fixed on the carpet, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “long night?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. he sighs heavily, slouching back against the couch. he rubs at his face with one had, glasses pushed up onto his forehead. “the longest,” he mumbles.

you hum sympathetically. he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, his gaze flicking over your face. "how was your day?" he asks, though his words are more of a formality than a genuine question. you know the day doesn’t really matter to him, but you tell him anyway. about work, about the book you’re reading, the mundane errands you ran, whatever pops into your mind. michael sits there quietly, just listening. he’s been so tired lately; it’s been weighing down on him heavily. “you doing ok?” you ask abruptly but gently, after a long pause. he gives a noncommittal shrug, still looking at the ground. “m’fine,” he mutters, though he’s anything but. you study him closely, and you can see that the bags under his eyes are more prominent than usual. his shoulders are tensed. you set your book on the coffee table, shifting your body and kissing his cheek.

michael leans a little into the touch. the tension on his expression eases just a little, though there's still a frown on his face. he glances at you. “that all i get for coming home so late?” he says, his voice teasing. you laugh breathily, almost like a sigh. kissing the corner of his mouth. he can’t help but crack a small smile as you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, the action so familiar to him. he lifts a hand, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb. “missed you,” he murmurs, the words slipping out before he can stop them. "mm. missed you." you kiss him in a slow way, a lingering press, more comfort than passion. he lets out a soft sigh as your lips meet his, he kisses you back, gently and unhurried, as if the world outside the walls of your home didn’t exist. he tastes faintly of nicotine. he deepens the kiss, his mouth moving against yours in a familiar rhythm.

he shifts on the couch, angling his body towards yours, and pulls you closer. he kisses you a little harder this time, his hands skimming over your hip. he’s always been affectionate when he’s tired, and the exhaustion from his shift just makes him all the more needy. he breaks off the kiss, his forehead resting against yours. he’s so close that you can see the tiny freckles across his nose, the tired bags under his eyes. “stay with me,” he murmurs against your lips, hands finding their familiar place on your waist. his thumb rubs idle circles on your body. he sounds tired. “i don’t want to be alone right now.” you pull away slightly, your thumb tracing his cheekbone as you study him closely. he can’t bring himself to meet your gaze, eyes averted, and you can tell there’s something weighing on his mind he’s not telling you.

(okay this is a sidenote but omg imagine the SL ending when mike opens his eyes and he has glasses on...... like he just got scooped but i #needthat....... i think i'm ovulating.)

THIS PARTY NEVER STOPS! TIME IS DEAD AND LIFE HAS NO MEANING!

Hunter Schafer makeup by Sandy Ganzer – getting ready for the Met Gala after party

Hes so funny BUT PLEASE FREE HIM

Charles: is there a leakage?

Pit: a leakage of what?

Charles: I have the seat full of water, full of water!

Pit: ahhhhh.... It must be the water.

Charles: lets add that to the words of wisdom

this is their original dialogue from the script trust

today’s lectionary texts—acts 5:27–32, psalm 118:14–29, revelation 1:9–11a, 12–13, 17–19, and john 20:19–31—are so densely interwoven it’s practically rabbinic. it’s the second sunday of easter, which historically functioned as a liturgical echo chamber for the resurrection. but today’s selections aren’t just liturgical filler—they’re deliberate theological architecture. acts 5:27–32 put you into a post pentecost context where peter and the apostles, fresh off their spirit induced empowerment, confront the sanhedrin. the line “we must obey god rather than men” (δεῖ ἀνθρώποις πειθαρχεῖν μᾶλλον ἢ τῷ θεῷ) is almost a second century anachronism. it anticipates martyrdom theology, rooted in texts like daniel 3 and 6, but also anticipates justin martyr and tertullian’s apologetics. it reframes civic disobedience as divine allegiance.

psalm 118 functions as a hinge text. it's the last of the hallel psalms (113–118), used during passover, which already overlays a liberation motif onto resurrection. “the stone the builders rejected” (v. 22) gets picked up in matt 21:42, mark 12:10, luke 20:17, and here again as a kind of post easter hermeneutical key. the rejected messiah becomes the cornerstone of a new ekklesia. it's also worth noting how this psalm was used in second temple processionals. what begins as royal liturgy becomes political protest. revelation 1:9–19 layers on the apocalyptic. john of patmos positions himself in exile “because of the word of god and the testimony of jesus”—a deliberate mirroring of the acts narrative. christ appears “like a son of man” (ὅμοιον υἱὸν ἀνθρώπου), drawing straight from daniel 7, but recoded with roman imperial aesthetics: golden sash, bronze feet, sword mouth. it’s not just christological—it’s anti imperial polemic. domitian’s empire is the beast; the risen christ is pantokrator. then john 20:19–31. locked room. fear. sudden appearance. peace (εἰρήνη ὑμῖν), said twice. jesus breathes on them—enephýsen—an echo of gen 2:7 and ezek 37. this is a new creation moment, a new adam breathing life into a new humanity. and thomas, often unfairly dubbed “doubting,” functions more like a johannine stand-in for the reader. he gets to touch the wound (typos), an embodied epistemology. and yet, the final beatitude—“blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed”—extends the narrative beyond history into faith. the whole text folds time like a chiasm. so yeah. today is about post resurrection defiance, counter temple theologies, radical reinterpretations of jewish liturgy, imperial subversion via apocalyptic aesthetics, and an invitation to epistemic humility. it’s theology as resistance literature.

how do you feel about boot riding 🤭

────۶ৎ boot ridin’

joel lets you grind on his boot and watches you fall apart. slow, dirty, and all him.

warnings: smut, boot riding, clothed grinding, degradation (light), praise kink, dom!joel.

more

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you plant yourself right there on his thigh, all needy and breathless, the heel of his boot solid under you. he's leaning back, forearm draped over the back of the worn-out couch, one brow cocked and that smirk playing on his lips like he already knows you’re about to fall apart just from grindin’ on him.

“boot ridin’, huh?” he drawls, voice all low and amused. “s’that what you’re callin’ it now, darlin’? looked more like beggin’ t’me.”

you whimper, rockin’ slow, the rough leather pressin’ right where you need it most. your panties are soaked, stickin’ to you, and you can feel every goddamn ridge of his boot sole with every shift of your hips.

he watches, hungry. doesn’t touch—not yet. just watches, one hand curled into a fist against his thigh like he’s holdin’ back.

“yeah, that’s it. make a mess on me, baby. all over my boot. fuckin’ filthy girl.”

you bite your lip, grind down harder, faster now, chasin’ that sharp edge that’s burnin’ hot in your belly. he leans in, finally, fingers curling around your throat—not tight, just enough to feel him there, firm and grounding.

“feel good?” he murmurs, eyes flickin’ down between your thighs. “can feel that little cunt twitchin’. know you wanna cum.”

you nod, mouth open but no words, just pantin’ like he’s got you on a leash. his thumb brushes your jaw, rough and calloused.

“go on. cum for me, sugar. make it count. wanna see that pretty pussy flood my boot, ruin it.”

and fuck—you do. it hits like lightning, rippin’ through you as your thighs shake and you moan his name, louder than you meant to. he groans low, like he felt it too, and finally lets his hand slide up between your legs, fingers strokin’ through the mess you made.

“jesus,” he mutters, voice gone gravel. “you ride better’n a goddamn cowboy.”

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thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.

yeah okay 5-2 it's macKover

max to kimi: "I can't believe you have all the equipment and the radio there" 😭

"BRADY SUCKS!"