cryobabiess

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Damn okay the semester is officially over I guess it’s time to goon

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never talk to my 37 unfinished ao3 fics again

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joel lost weight in five years due to all the sex we started having after returning from salt lake city

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Damn okay the semester is officially over I guess it’s time to goon

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DAVID HARBOUR Thunderbolts* (2025)

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“Actor Josh Hartnett arrives at the New York midnight screening of ‘Thirty Days Of Night’ October 13, 2007, at the Chelsea West Theater in New York City.”

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FUCK THE ECONOMY!!!!!!!

*bangs my huge stupid cock on the ground*

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I’ve had a tumblr for 4 years what the fuck am I doing with my life 

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I'm going to bed and when I wake up there better be 4,000+ lucas reyes fics on ao3. Lock tf in.

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I love you, it's ruining my life.

Lucas Reyes x Ghost!reader

Synopsis: Lucas catches feelings, but he's pretty sure it was the toad venom's fault. Tags: Fluff, Angst, Short fic, Drabble, age gap, loser in love, slight nsfw, afab!reader, request A/N: Listen, someone had to write something. Shout out to the 5 other people who get it. IYKYK. This was originally a request, but I wanted to post separately just in case I feel like continuing, idk.

You make him feel old—not that he would ever tell you that. Lucas is an alcoholic (functioning, of course). He’s pushing 50. His exhaustion is bone deep and angry. Gone are his days as a young and scrappy FBI operative with aggressive stamina and limitless joint mobility. His knees crack when he stands up, and his back fucking hurts. 

He's a washed up, tired, and downright old son'uva bitch.

These are all things he would admit without a gun to his head.

And to be frank, there’s usually a gun.

But Lucas would rather let the death that’s been chasing him finally finish the job than admit that you make him feel…something. Something that made his transition from petty political enemy to global terrorist threat only a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things—from bad to only slightly worse, but better in an abysmal sort of way. He felt it when he was fucked up off that vial of toad venom, when he grabbed your deceivingly delicate face in between his hands.

“I need you alive.” He slurred, his heart a poorly timed surprise away from cardiac arrest, and his pupils blown wide. About 1,000 complex feelings consumed him in that moment—all telling him that the only way to communicate them was to hoist you up by the back of your thighs, fuse your body into his, and kiss you. 

“The world needs you alive.” He blubbered, fighting the urge to bury his beat-up face in the crook of your neck. Right there, in the midst of a plane ride he was 90% sure he wouldn't survive, you restored every piece of his moral backbone that had been crushed. He swore he saw the future in those big, confused eyes. His purpose. He needed to tell you. He wanted to whisper it against your mouth, with his forehead pressed against yours, as if being inside you could communicate what words couldn't.

Somehow, the toad venom lost to the tiny sliver of reason in his concussed mind (you can’t pickle a pickle). 

He knew he was royally fucked when he woke up in a hospital bed in a dilapidated warehouse, crude and brightly colored children’s drawings decorating the concrete walls. Through bloodshot eyes, he watched you redress the gunshots he took on your behalf and thought: I’ll follow her anywhere.  (Like he said—Fucked.)

You. The Ghost.

A 20-something-year-old “terrorist” on a global hit list. Blowing up sweatshop factories and debt collection data servers, committing cyber crimes for resistance organizations. Pointlessly raging against a massive, bloodthirsty machine with infinite resources, money, and warm bodies to defend it. He used to be one of those bodies.

Lucas had enough years under his belt to know that all your effort and sacrifice, though deeply admirable, might be futile. The rich will get richer, and the rest of us devoured by their machines. Arbitors of justice rarely catch a break—a 2 year long lesson he learned in Bangkok. He knows better.

Two weeks in a make-shift hospital bed passed, and his better judgment is nowhere to be found. He might have left it on the plane.

“I’m getting too old for this.” He hisses as you tightly wrap a clean dressing around his shoulder, where a knife was lodged. 

“At least you’re not dead.” You retort. Lucas wheezes a laugh. It fucking hurts.

He would've died for you anyway. 

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Reblog daily for health and prosperity

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All I could think when it showed this random guy tapping through his phone

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JOSH HARTNETT as LUCAS REYES

FIGHT OR FLIGHT (2025) dir. James Madigan

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demonic possession wouldn’t even affect me, i would just assume it’s The Symptoms