#and if i ever get pregnant

[cloudninetonine]

I got some more temp-based injury knowledge because I'm in the process of creating an injury and scar chart for Four and he has to take on the injuries of four/five people at once so I'm focused on the whole ice and fire thing Red and Blue had going on. And also because I've been reading a lot of Four whump fics by coincidence and I've noticed that fsr people don't often write fics for him alone as much as the other Chain members, but when they do, they hit him scarily hard. (Ignore me also liking to beat him up for fun lol, it's the privilege of being my fave)

So frostbite. Not fun. But a fun fact is that it can take months after severe enough frostbite to reveal itself as bad enough to be amputated. You could be told to amputate your fingers or toes in July or August after getting stuck in the cold for too long in October. It takes 30 minutes to reach deep frostbite (to get to a stage of gangrenous tissue) in -17C temps and 15 minutes for anything below. Frostbite occurs when tiny ice crystals form between the cells inside the body from prolonged exposure to freezing temps, which causes oxygen starvation and dehydration of water from the cells. But if warmed too quickly, blood pools to the damaged tissue and capillaries and drowns the cells. Bad all around. This can happen to tissue, muscles, tendons, flesh, and bone, though obviously presents with different physical symptoms. You can actually die from frostbite if left untreated, presenting with a warm body temp due to fizzled out adrenaline, the victim seeming to simply "fall asleep", and no decomposition from the cold temps (you'll know why, I don't have to explain that one...)

So more burn facts from last time! Thermal, chemical, and electrical all present differently. Thermal burns usually have peeling or white and splotchy skin, reddened skin, muscle, or tissue, and can later produce blisters, swelling and scars from second+-degree burns. Nerve-endings, sweat glands, and blood vessels can burst or singe from the heat, and sometimes hair follicles will burn away if directly exposed to the source of the burn like fire or liquid (compared to just being within extreme heat which can turn the hair brunette, blond, grey, or red). And yes, sunburn is technically a mild thermal burn PUT YOUR DAMN SUNSCREEN ON IN SUMMER! Chemical burns have a lot smoother of a burn site with no peeling and skin will likely necrose, turn black, and die. Nerves will definitely be destroyed so there may be pain for a few seconds until the nerve-endings die, but will likely feel no pain at all. With strong enough alkaline chemicals, all tissues will go through liquefaction necrosis, basically meaning that all tissue, muscle, and bone dies and turns to a viscous liquid. It generally means that burns caused by strong alkalis like lye, lime, and ammonia cause worse injuries than acids. I'm not as knowledgeable on chemical burns, but trust me, don't look up any images. And then electrical burns are some of the worst because it's literally explosive. While usually chemical and thermal burns have different degrees and can be quite minor, most electrical burns have two settings; fuck you up (second-degree) and fuck you up harder (third-degree). Apart from the obvious pain, blisters, swelling etc, electrical burns are unique in that they have an entry and exit point, and like gunshot wounds, the entry site is usually small, and the exit site is a mess because the electricity needs to explode outward, exposing bone. It causes subdermal damage to the skin, meaning that in the long-term, the tissue beneath the skin will be messed up, compared to the other burns which will effect the dermis and epidermis the most if not third-degree burns and onwards (there's like seven kinds of burn degrees and it's kind of horrific).

Trench foot is similar to frostbite in that it's related to the feet losing warmth, though is unique in that it's due to wet conditions since wet feet lose warmth 25x faster than dry feet. Basically, to prevent heat loss, blood vessels constrict which leads to a build up of toxins from lingering CO2 and other products not being transported and a lack of oxygen, causing real fast tissue death. It's called 'trench foot' because this was a really common thing among soldiers during WW1 as the trenches where really cold and really wet since they were literal open-roofed tunnels across the ground and it rained often. Chilblains is similar to both frostbite and trench foot but is caused by repeated exposure to incredibly low temperatures and the damage is permanent, unlike mild cases of the later two conditions which can be reversed before reaching tissue death. Chilblains is reoccurring and comes back every time you're exposed to the cold after gaining it.

So you know how people get nosebleeds after temp changes? It's because warm air or winter conditions makes blood vessels more fragile and easy to break. When something comes along and breaks, cuts, or ruptures the blood vessels, they're more easy to break because of this and thus frequent nosebleeds. That or because some people just have naturally higher blood pressure for a whole bunch of reasons.

Unrelated kinda bc I'm already talking about the shortest man of the Chain but height absolutely affects recovery time from injury and likelihood of developing them. Like a short person has a harder time getting heat stroke due to having less body heat and has a decreased risk of stuff like blood clotting, bone breakage, and cancer. Maybe the reason Four's whump fics hit him so hard is because authors need to literally beat him with everything they've got to take such a short man down. And he's also going to live a longer life if a monster doesn't take him out first.

(Another incredibly unrelated fact that I have to let people know of because it still baffles me is that taller women have longer pregnancies???)

The only reason I know so much is because I focused really hard on human anatomy and illnesses and the such as a kid and now I hard project it into my writing instead. Now, I share my knowledge to other very talented artists through asks apparently. Good job young Russ ig lmao

Good job young Russ indeed! This is some gourmet shit! Very good!

I need to tag shit better soon so I can look back on these when needed.

...Also what do you mean taller women get longer pregnancies-

[artzy-ari]

Man i love sonadow fanfiction

[heartsofminds]

if you could see my thoughts, you would see our faces

“I do a lot of things you don’t do. Doesn’t mean you should be knockin’ yourself out to try ‘em.” or Carmy takes an impromptu smoke break and you're begging him for a drag.

A/N: just a sweet little blurb that's been sitting in my back pocket for a while. hope y'all love it as much as i loved writing it!

Smoke breaks never last forever. 

The cacophonic slam of a door, the pliable edges of a pack of American Spirits, the grooves of a lighter’s spark wheel, the mix of brisk Chicago wind smacking your face, and the heat of a silently shameful cigarette caressing it in a false sleeve of comfort – The world is silent during a smoke break. 

Until the door opens and someone asks to bum a light. Or until you get called back in because everyone and their goddamn mother in River North decides to come in to try the dinner special, yet pretend like they’re actually fucking curious to know what you think the best thing on the menu is. Or until the ignored panic in the back of your mind knocks the wind out of you when taking a particularly long drag that leaves you stifling a deep and hearty cough. 

The small moment of peace before it all still remains good. The moment of peace is fine. The moment of peace is all you can afford to get sometimes. 

A smoke break never lasts forever, but the temporary solace it provides is enough for Carmen, whose brain never seems to stop spinning no matter how fast or slow the world is turning without him. 

He’s gotten better, he thinks, about voicing his discomfort and finding ways to “cope” with his feelings of metaphysical spiraling. He’s still getting the hang of this whole “finding meaning outside of the kitchen” thing, but he figures that twenty-eight years of having your worth summed up in how well something was chopped or seasoned or sautéed or whatever the fuck is ridiculously hard to disengage from. 

His therapist would kill him if she knew that he credited a portion of the advancement of his well-being to you. He can hear Erin tell him that he can’t rely on people to make him feel better; that the only person who can determine Carmen’s worth is Carmen himself, but quite frankly he doesn’t give a fuck. 

And then he remembers that not giving a fuck is him making his own decision about his life (which he was never allowed to do before, which is why he thinks he was damned to hell to pick the profession he has), and his heart swells a bit with pride. He cares about something for once that has all to do with him and the meaning of life and living and being alive and in charge, and that idea is no longer a room with a false ceiling that can cave in at any moment. 

He doesn’t give a fuck because he does give one, and he has never known that something as simple as being loved, fully and authentically, was something that would make all the difference. 

Despite not being stressed out nor having a “real” reason to smoke (except for the fact that he’s a creature of habit, and you seem to love the word “addicted” even though he disagrees), he finds himself lifting the window near the fire escape of his apartment and stepping out onto the rusted steps that are less than functional and whips out his lighter and the red cardboard package harboring his cigarettes. 

The lights are off in the apartment and the soft whistling of the heater helps him make sense of the foggy window glass. Chicago is nightmarishly cold in November, yet his body doesn’t seem to mind the teen-digited temperature that plagues the indigo-hued 1 AM sky. 

Carmy loved in living in the city (and the actual city of Chicago and not Naperville or Joliet or Downers Grove like all the other self-proclaimed “Chicagoan” jagoffs that littered the outskirts of the city for sleep, but polluted it for play). 

He liked living in New York City but he loved living in Chicago. New York was too noisy which, he knows, is so fucking ironic given the fact he lives in the heart of all things bustling and boisterous. 

But New York had the kind of noise at night that was isolating; the sounds of cars honking and the squeal of the subway telling the stories of a million different lives of a million different people that he didn’t know. 

New York City is the largest city in the United fucking States, yet a twenty-two-year-old Carmen could not have felt lonelier while he was there. New York City is the perfect city in the United fucking States to go soul-searching in, and yet a twenty-two-year-old Carmen could not have been more clueless about who he was at the time.  

And he’s still figuring out this “thing” called having an identity and finding peace, and he’ll never feel like he knows a whole lot about anything, but he does know two things for certain. 

He fucking loathes feeling lonely and he fucking despises feeling clueless. 

Chicago is noisy, but the kind of noise that sends an irritated streak of comfort down your spine; the hatred of your twin bed and its mismatched sheets in your childhood bedroom, but the comfort of knowing a refreshing and safe sleep is to follow that night. It was the kind of noise that filled living rooms on Christmas Day or the backyard on the Fourth. It was the sound of a vacuum cleaner running on an early Saturday morning during the first week of summer break and the ticking of kitchen timers and arguments and laughter and tears of all kinds. 

He was always reluctant to come back. His pride is something he holds close to his chest but wears with quiet confidence. He would rather die than it seem as if he ran away from New York back home with his tail between his legs. He would rather die than admit to himself that Chicago is where he was meant to be and where he should have always been. He would rather die than admit that through his fucked childhood and even fuck-ier adulthood (Thank you Mikey and Mom and NOMA and Chef David), the city is his safety blanket. 

Carmen hasn’t been back to the house since the incident five Christmases ago. Everyone mutually (and very silently so as to not piss his mom off even more than she always perpetually seemed to be) decided that Christmas Eve dinner is much better suited for Uncle Jimmy’s house. When Natalie called on the phone to let him know about the change of venue the following year, he had known from her tone that another Richter scale meltdown had occurred once their mother found out. 

From then on he found ways to stay away; to stay put and to put his life on hold and it was the closest thing he could get to not breathing with, you know, still actually fucking breathing. 

And it worked for a while. It worked for one thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days, to be exact. 

But then Mikey died and then there was a restaurant and then there was every relative that had ever known of his existence knocking down his door and begging him to let them in; asking him if he was okay and prodding him with questions about any and everything in between his mom driving her car into the fucking house and his brother deciding croaking was better than sticking around this hell hole. 

And it’s crazy, he thinks, how him simply observing the weather and thinking about possibly smoking a cigarette before bed created this rabbit hole of what would usually be the beginning of an anxious spiral. 

Fucking Christ, I need a cigarette. 

His fingers create an unrecognizable beat on the package of cigarettes in his hand and he takes the first step out onto the fire escape. 

Carmen’s body weight bares down on a piece of the wired metal and it groans in protest. The sounds of tires passing through slush on the road create soothing white noise for his ears. The thin blue henley shirt he has on does little to shield the wind from icing his skin, but he doesn’t mind. 

He can’t chance going back inside to fetch his jacket. The coat rack near the front door lies at the end of a pattern of creaks from your apartment’s shitty floorboards. You’re not a light sleeper in any sense of the word (nor are you entirely sober right now), but he knows that he never places that one particularly decrepit plank of wood right, and the noise will jolt you out of your slumber. 

His nimble fingers swiftly pull a cigarette out of the carton. He cups it with his left and uses his right to cradle the flicker of his lighter. The orange flame disappears as fast as it had been kindled and he inhales deeply and his exhale is shallow. 

Carmen had been smoking since he was fifteen, but he never really had a reason to do it other than Mikey did, and it was a way to spend more time with him. It was their little secret; something that was his and Mike’s and something that seemed like a big deal at the time but would mean jack shit the second he turned eighteen. He never really loved the way cigarettes smelled. He could hardly stand the taste and the constant health class lectures about them being bad for your lungs freaked him out. 

But now that he knows what it feels like to have no thoughts in his head and be left alone in the solace of smoking a cigarette in the dead of night, he thinks he gets it. 

The silence is cut in half by the sound of the rickety floorboard groaning out in a warning. He doesn’t have to peek his head inside and look around to know that it’s you. You never sleep well after a night out and even though he had to carry you up the stairs, drag a damp washcloth over your face to remove your makeup, and bribe you to stand up long enough to take out your own contacts, he should have known better than to be anywhere but in bed next to you. 

Your drunkenness has started to fade and you’ve gone down on the meter from “off your ass” to “slightly tipsy.” Him picking you up from your girls’ night at one of the clubs downtown was more than two hours ago, but he figured you would’ve came and found him by now. 

You have such a fear of missing out and while it’s not Carmen’s favorite thing about you, it does warm his heart to know that you want to spend time with him or that you’re scared he’s doing something interesting without you around. He wishes your ‘fomo’ was based on some issue that he could tangibly fix and not on what he knows is your badly bruised self-esteem. It makes his chest heavy that sometimes you can’t see how great you are; that sometimes you don’t understand why he wants you around and loves you so dearly. 

He can hear your footsteps approach the window ledge and he wordlessly holds his arm out for you to grab onto. Your fingers come out from under the blanket you’ve thrown over yourself like a shawl and grasp his like a lifeline. 

Your body effortlessly molds to him; your front pressed to his back and his unoccupied arm pulling you closer like a seatbelt on your waist. The subtle pressure on your midsection comforts you and your body lodged into his helps alleviate some of the sting he’d been suffering from the cold. 

“You’re mad at me,” you speak. Your voice is small and soft; gentle just in case he really is mad at you and this isn’t something your drunk mind conjured up as you lay in bed alone. 

He sighs and turns his head to take another drag from his cigarette. He makes sure that your hair is out of target of his smoke exhale. A subtle whine leaves your throat as he steps away from you and he grins. Carmen loves when you’re like this; when you’re clingy and being near him is never enough to satiate you. 

“M’not,” he says. You shift from one foot to the other and his eyes momentarily gaze down to make sure you put on socks before you come out here to join him.

 Even though he can’t see your face, he knows that the corners of your mouth are posed in a frown. You hate it when he doesn’t elaborate. It makes you feel shut out. He’s not helping his case of denying your accusation. You may just burst into tears if he doesn’t provide more dialogue. 

Your nasty habit of feeling like everyone is upset with you all the time is swelling. His nasty habit of smoking more cigarettes a day than he knows he needs is bulging. 

Another drag from his cigarette. Another exhale of smoke. Another attempt at trying to be better for you. 

“Can’t ever be mad at you, baby. Not with a face like that,” he croons. The words come out of his mouth so easily; endearment dipped in honey and love warmed by sunshine. Adoration is easy when it comes to you. He’s never known a peace like this. 

“Sly dog,” you mutter. The brain fog from the four tequila lemonades you downed earlier makes you slow in finding a smartass thing to say. Carmen fights the urge to poke fun at you because he knows that you’ll take him seriously. 

“I love you. I love you. I love you,” your words silently praise. 

“You make it easy,” his hold on you acknowledges. 

Your face is numb from the cold and the alcohol making its way through your system. The lips pecking a kiss against your temple can barely be felt, yet you contently hum once the damp seal of them releases the affection you’ve been longing for. He never makes you work hard for his undivided attention when he readily has it. Wordlessness crafts a cradle of comfort for you both. Soulmates in ways that soulmates usually aren’t. 

Another drag from his cigarette. Another exhale of smoke. Another show of actually being better for you. 

A beat of silence passes with the whistling of the wind. 

“Can I try?” your voice is small with unacquired confirmation of what his answer will be. 

He giggles and you’re mesmerized by the way the smoke exhales with each minuscule twitch of his chest. You turn around at the feeling and press your palms to his torso. It’s impossible not to admire him. You’re always starstruck but he makes it easy to be that way when he looks so peaceful and sweet and good. 

Good for you. Good for your heart. Good for each other. 

You make a mental note to tell him that he should wear this shirt more often but know deep down that you’ll forget to do so until it comes back clean in the laundry basket in a week. You need to work on that, you think; telling him that you love him when you feel it. Moments like this don’t last forever, and you fear for the day that the ooey-gooey feelings of love in its purest forms are fleeting. You know that Carmen makes it impossible, but you can never be sure. Much like he, you’re always half expecting the ceiling to cave in. 

“Sweet baby wants to be a smoker?” he chides. He doesn’t feel bad when you flash him a pouty frown. 

“Carm!” you gripe. Your cheek presses to his pec. You hate when he does this; when he can’t give a straight answer. It isn’t something that needs an answer, but the satisfaction of having one, of being connected to him and the inner world of his mind he tries so hard to keep from everyone, would feel nice. 

Carmen’s tattooed hand snubs the cigarette out on the dish left on the ledge of the window. His fingers curl to let his knuckles brush the hair on the top of your head. You try your hardest not to melt into his touch. He’ll have a field day if you let him have the satisfaction of making you visibly weak in the knees. 

“Didn’t even say no yet, sweetheart.” 

“Yeah, but you’re being mean. Just tell me “no” instead of making me suffer.” 

He quirks his eyebrow and brings a gentle hand to guide your chin upwards, forcing you to make eye contact with him.“Well, m’gonna if you don’t lose the ‘tude, baby.” 

The shift in his tone of voice and the forced eye contact sends a beam of warmth down to your stomach. He has a way of leaving little leeway for negotiation and argument. It’s abstract to his everyday life, but that was complicated, you know. When it’s you and him and him and you, there is never a need for a fight for dominance or a clarification of authority. You both understand each other on a level that is molecular. There is never any need for guessing. 

His finger flicks your lip playfully before swiping a calloused thumb gently on the plush of them. You had fought him so hard earlier when he tried to swipe the lipstick and liner you had put on earlier off with a washcloth. He finds it wild that you’re wide awake and coherent after witnessing the mild temper tantrum you had thrown about it not even two hours earlier. 

Carmen spots the gentle gleam in your eyes and his heart instantly softens. He sighs, momentarily taking his hands off of you and reaching back in his pocket for his carton of cigarettes and lighter. 

“Fine, but you gotta light it.” 

The aforementioned cigarette sits unlit between his lips, the end sticking out like an invitation and the filter hid between his teeth like a dirty secret. He half expects you to chicken out when he hands you the lighter. You always freaked out a little about the flame being so close to your fingers. Something about feeling the heat so close to your hand made you insanely nervous and he could never seem to fully understand. 

His expectations are exceeded when your thumbnail crafts friction with the spark wheel and the illuminated peach of his lighter of the month spurs to life. You don’t cup it with your hands to shield it from the wind. You let it grow and shrink as you lift it up to the unlit butt sticking out of his mouth. 

Your eyes watch in childish awe as the wrapped paper gives way and reveals the hearty smell of tobacco and a sunburst of ashes upon making contact with the manufactured heat. You had watched Carmen smoke hundreds of times, but something about seeing it now right in front of you kindles a spark of curiosity deep in your belly. 

“Can’t believe my sweet girl wants to puff on a cancer stick,” he says. You know that he’s joking, but his trying to get you to change your mind strikes a nerve deep within you. 

“You do it so why can’t I?” you huff, agitated with him seemingly withholding the cigarette you so desperately crave. 

“I do a lot of things you don’t do. Doesn’t mean you should be knockin’ yourself out to try ‘em.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s just one. Don’t be so mean.” 

He pulls the stick from between his lips and creates a perfect “o” ring with the smoke in its wake. A dopey-eyed grin plants a home on his face and his eyes look deep into yours. 

Fucking show-off. 

“All it takes is one to get addicted,” he continues to smoke and the cigarette butt starts to diminish with each puff he takes, “You sure you wanna bite, sweetheart?” 

“One won’t hurt.”

His gaze lowers to your lips and back up to your eyes. “Don’t wanna end up like me. All sad and addicted to cigarettes.” 

“Carmen, please. I just want one,” you huff, lightly pushing his chest away. He moves slightly with your force and has to stifle a laugh. 

“They ever show you Teri the Smoker in health class?” Carmen takes the cigarette out of his mouth and pretends to examine it, faux and forced curiosity at the cylindrical tube sitting between his lithesome fingers. He’s not giving into you on purpose, you know, and he’ll give in eventually, you also know, but him trying to delay the gratification of getting what you want is starting to annoy you more than it usually would. 

“Yes? What does that have to do with anything?” 

He pops it back in his mouth and takes an obnoxiously long drag. “Nothing,” he breathes out the smoke with his statement, “Just funny that you know that and here you are, damn near hands and knees, gagging for a cigarette.” 

“Carmen.” 

He laughs and you can’t help but love the sound. 

“You know, it’s real fucked up of you to ask for a drag from my cigarette that I get with my hard-earned money,” he says and you roll your eyes, “You should know I love you too much to let you stick a cancer stick in your mouth.” 

“It’s just one!” you plead. 

“It’s never just one, sweetheart.” 

“Well, who says’m gonna get addicted like – like you and Teri the Smoker?” 

“The nicotine content on the carton. That’s who.” 

He’s not paying you any attention and it’s starting to ache your heart a little. You know that he’s distracted; that he’s just trying to prevent the ashes from getting on your blanket and from getting the smell of smoke in your hair, but him biting at your insistence a little less than he was previously sends a pang of gloominess through your chest.

“You smoke all the time, and if you get a hole in your throat because of that then you’re so mean.” 

His lips upturn in introspection.“M’mean?” 

“Very,” you answer dryly. 

“Humor me.” 

“Because then I’ll have to live the rest of my life without hearing your voice again and then I’ll be so sad.” 

He shrugs, half knowing that you’re joking but half expecting something more to come out of what you’re getting at. “Ehh, don’t think anyone at the restaurant would miss it.” 

“I would!” 

You smack at his chest again lightly and he remembers how touchy and wild you get after you’ve been drinking. It’s never bad or out of control, but you’re more affectionate than usual and less gentle than you normally are. 

“Yeah, baby? Gonna miss my voice?” 

“Mhm,” you purr, leaning up to get closer to his ear, “Gonna miss how you call me a good girl. And how you whine when I pull your hair and how you tell me that I’m the tightest and wettest little th-” 

“Jesus,” he laughs, playfully pushing the side of your face away as your teeth nibble a tiny bite on the thick of his palm, “Fuck off.” 

You like to play around, too. That’s also something he sees more of after a night out. He never indulges; knows you get too riled up and in your head when it goes somewhere he’s not comfortable with, but he loves it nonetheless. Being together has helped the other not be so scared of permanence. Moments like this confirm what he knows, and he realizes that you’re a saint and he wants to marry you. 

The stuff that comes along with it has been plaguing his mind as of late, but he realizes how little it matters when he sees you all happy and grateful to be around him and doing the most mundane of things. He’ll get you that ring and that house and those babies and the happiest fucking life in a heartbeat, and he’s oddly comforted by the fact that he knows you’ll let him. 

Carmen’s never been the best at not wearing his feelings on his face and you know he’s deep in thought when the banter dies and the whistling of the wind takes its place. You hope he isn’t spiraling. He tends to do that a lot. You tend to feel powerless when it happens. 

Your eyes study his face; the lightness of his irises, the spiral of curls, the slope of his nose. The tequila from earlier remains in your system, but it doesn’t change the fact that you love him so deeply. 

“You know, it’s bullshit that you’re giving me hell about putting a cigarette in my mouth.” Your voice cuts through the quiet and he starts to grin again. 

“Hey, s’only bullshit because you’re sittin’ here beggin’ and then telling me I’m gonna have a fuckin’ hole in my throat from smoking too much.” 

“I never said that it was gonna be bad, Bear. I just said I was gonna miss hearing your voice is all.” 

His free hand comes out to sit on the base of your neck. A calloused thumb draws small semi-circles on the bottom of your hairline. 

“You know, her quality of life was probably amazing,” he speaks, “Like didn’t she have kids and grandkids and friends and shit? Health class is fucked up for making her out to be the ‘throat hole lady’.” 

“You shouldn’t say that,” you grimace and he plants his lips on your forehead. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” 

You make him softer. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t think twice about how insensitive it had come off. His therapist is always saying people can’t make you better, but she clearly hasn’t met you. 

“But that was kinda the whole point? You shouldn’t want to be like her?” you pause and the frown lines in your eyebrows write “pensive” on your face before you even realize it, “. . .Because she does have a hole in her throat. And her quality of life was just very. . .different?” 

Carmen nods. “They’re fucked up for that.” 

“Jesus, Carm. Do you think smoking is bad or not because you’re giving me soooo many mixed signals here,” you sigh, your forehead moving forward faster than you intended and hitting the bony composition of his collarbones. 

He hums softly; part listening to what you’re saying and part acknowledging that he wants to move on from what you had said. 

“Did you know that your life expectancy goes down by eleven minutes or some shit like that each time you smoke a cigarette?” he swiftly changes the subject. 

You pick your head up and narrow your eyes playfully. “Oh, you don’t even love me enough to let me smoke one so I can be put out of my misery a whole eleven minutes earlier when you die from smoking a gazillion packs a day and leave me all lonely and wrinkly.” 

“I think you’d be hot wrinkly,” he replies matter-of-factly. 

“I think you’d be hot if you let me smoke one.”

“You’re probably not gonna like it.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

He realizes that the cigarette has pretty much burned itself out. There’s possibly one or two more drags left before he has to ash it out completely. He debates on whether he should let you have at it or silently take the last two and usher you back inside. If he chooses the former, he knows that he’ll feel bad if you don’t like it, and he worries that your realization will kickstart the unraveling of something almost perfect he’s found for himself. He can’t bear to take another loss in his life. If he chooses the latter, he knows you wouldn’t even be aware that he had smoked it entirely by himself, and that you’ll gripe and complain for the rest of the night and table the conversation for another time when he’s in a less resistive state. 

“Carm, you have to give me a puff from it,” you complain, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

He’s giving in to you. He always does. He doesn’t know why he pretends like he has free will when it comes to you. 

“C’mere,” he beckons your face closer, “And don’t use your hands. You have that blanket on and I don’t wanna have to call Chicago Fire tonight.” 

Carmen lifts his hand up to your mouth and gently laughs when you go cross-eyed to eye the filter sitting in between his pointer and middle fingers. 

“You just inhale, hold it, and then breathe back out,” he instructs. He feeds the filter to your lips before suddenly pulling it back. “Don’t choke yourself out though. That uh – that won’t be good and then you’re really not gonna like it.” 

Your neck extends to get closer to Carmen’s hand and you do what he says. You inhale, hold it, and exhale. You don’t think you’re doing it right (and he knows that you didn’t, but doesn’t say anything because he knows it’ll make you whiny) but you’re satisfied that he trusts you enough to try. 

“Took it like a champ, baby,” he cheers, “So proud!” 

He pushes the butt of the cigarette into the dish and your blanket-covered hands come up to palm his face gently. The plush of the cover feels soft against his stubble-covered cheeks, and your gazes catch each other’s. 

A moment of tranquility. A moment of peace. A moment of love. 

He so desperately wants to marry you. 

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

I'm gonna be honest at this point we deserve for them to make Buddie friends-to-fiancés like yeah we missed out on canon with the shooting and season five and who even knows what the fuck was going on in season six we're like three seasons behind now chop chop just skip it all and have Eddie desperately propose in the rain. I need it. It would cure me. More importantly it would be the most in-character way you could possibly get these codependent desperately abnormal idiots together.

[ceilidho]

the way you wrote PBF soap’s pregnancy kink rotted my brain in the best way possible I would give you all the money in my bank account if you wrote more of the breeding/pregnancy kink/“““accidentally””” knocking up the reader wjth soap (or ghost! or price!!) 🥺🫶🏽💞💞💞💞

asdfsdgs I know, I can't help it.

Price is staring down at you while fucking missionary when he thinks that you'd make a good mom. You've always been so attentive to him ever since you started working for him, anticipating his every need and always quick to lend a hand. Price can't help but picture how attentive you'd be to your own child, to his child; how he'd feel if you knocked on his office door and came in with his baby bouncing on your hip. He has both your hands pressed down against the bed and fingers interlocked when he decides he's not pulling out. He draws you into a deep, wet kiss to muffle your little gasps and whines before pounding you harder, chasing his own release.

Ghost has never been particularly interested in having kids. With his own childhood and upbringing, he's always quietly suspected that he wouldn't make the best father. That any kid he sired would inevitably end up being just as messed up as him. It's only when he's railing you from behind in a grimy gas station bathroom after hours on the road, both of you sweaty and in need of a shower and coffee, his hand fisted in your hair that he realizes that for all his reservations, he doesn't have any about you. He wants to keep you bound to him, inextricably linked to him for as long as you live. It's what makes him shift his stance and drive into you with renewed vigour, muffling your sounds with two fingers shoved into your mouth.

Soap gets so lost in his pleasure that he sometimes doesn't even remember that you're on the other end of it. Everything is hot and wet and tight, and it makes his mind go numb, his only thought to chase that pleasure, to get closer to you, to pound so hard that he almost bruises your cervix. He goes so crazy that sometimes he'll bite your cheek or gnaw at the space between your neck and shoulder, sucking dark, mean hickies into your skin. When he comes, it's almost absentminded, never even thinking to warn you. His come just dripping down your inner thighs, and his brain goes blank when he pulls out and plays with it, not paying any attention to how you squawk about not being on the pill. Whatever. Get pregnant.

[erwinsvow]

girl okay now make rafe mad n ending up in her actually getting pregnant 🤗🤞

"bet you thought that was real fuckin' cute, huh?" rafe says against your ear, slamming his dick in and out of you at a painfully fast pace.

you can barely understand the words he's saying. your brain's stopped working, focusing on nothing but how good it feels, how fast rafe is going, how mean he's being. you thought you'd seen the roughest rafe could get with you, but as it turns out, you hadn't seen shit.

you cry out nonsense against his pillow, faced smushed into it while he rails into you from behind. your limbs hurt—arms clasped behind your back, rafe's hand holding them tightly in place, legs pinned to the bed while rafe mounts you. it's brutal. it's primal. you think this is the most fun you've ever had.

you thought you had regreted your april fools joke the moment rafe had gotten incredibly sweet and serious with you. you now realize you didn't regret a thing.

"no, kid, that was funny. thought i got you pregnant." he grips your hair, pulling it and making your face rise from the pillow, the room filling with the sound of your moans, the words you were trying to piece together falling apart again.

"m-m'sorry, rafe, sorry—!" you cry out, while rafe pushes you down again, your back arched high for him, gripping you by your stomach while his hand pushes down against it.

"no you're not. make you fuckin' sorry." he picks up his speed, thrusting even harder. "we're not stoppin' until i put a baby in ya."

[danielenjoyer]

I always talk about Eric but I cannot wait to see more of this Daniel in season 3 dear god this man is such a good young Daniel

[spielzeugkaiser]

Just imagining that AU of the AU where Geralt’s feeling the baby kick for the first time and he goes all puppy eyed. “Aww. They like you!”

Oh, I think he'd not feel joy immediately! It's more like f e a r.

[vlasdygoth]

i've been thinking about a mgs star wars au so obviously this had to happen

[yuridovewing]

i really hate how the fandom’s excuse for jayfeather’s shitty behavior (and outright medical malpractice in certain cases. looking at the time he refused to help squilf in labour bc he couldnt be bothered and later blamed her for how bad it was) is “well the clan was ableist to him growing up, so fuck them!” ok how does that excuse him screaming at and berating the cats that didnt do any of that. or the babies.

[captainmaxatx]

Omega! Logan who was born in the 1800s when secondary gender roles were very prevalent but it actually really suited him and he wanted to be a home maker and have a bunch of pups but he was always too big and hairy and and not seen as a good Omega. Alphas would sleep with him but never treat him the way they would a “proper” omega and they didn’t ever want anything serious because it’s like almost shameful to have a big hairy omega.

Then times change and Omegas start breaking out of the cookie cutter roles and they go into the work force and what not (feminism but it’s omegas) and Logan is very happy for them he thinks they all deserve the right to choose, but still no one wants him. And everyone expects him being an omega with the way he looks to be at the forefront of the movement to want the change for himself, but he doesn’t.

And over the years he toughened up and stops looking to start a family and put his dreams on the back burner to become what everyone expected of him.

And then everything happens and all the sudden Logan finds himself in a universe without secondary genders, where he isn’t a too big and hairy omega, he’s just some guy.

And unintentionally he finds his way into the role he’s always craved, where he takes care of the home and the dog while Wade makes the money, and it’s the closest he’s ever been to the life he wanted. He mostly retires from fighting and heroing, but now he’s ready for a new challenge. And being near Laura has only served to dig up that old desire and instinct he tried to bury so long ago

And I mean, even if the mutant hate wasn’t as bad as it is in Logan’s old world there was still a time here not to long ago when mutants were ran out and scattered around the world. And now with the people at Xavier’s working on getting the Mutants back into the city trying to re group with their still dwindling numbers. I mean Logan and Wade should help with the mutant re population efforts, who better to do that then two very eager immortals who can heal from anything and with a whole gang of friends around them for free child care.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

eating König x high school sweetheart up like a buffet tbh [Gordon Ramsey voice] finally some good fucking food 🤌🔥

What if König and Sweetheart had an oops baby? Sweetheart is estatic because it’s the best of both of them and König would be the best dad! You’ve overcome your pasts to build a sweet little future together!!

He agrees that he would be the best dad (to anyone else’s baby, not hers 😤) but is panicking because his plans to leave her in the dust have been effectively put on hold for 18 years. She didn’t baby trap him, he obvs baby-trapped her!! He’s goes into Turbo Cope Mode and convinces himself that no one will want her as a single mom, and that no one is more qualified to raise HIS baby than HIM. He’ll play happy family for now (⬅️ will play happy family forever).

I just imagine him breeding her like crazy ("out of revenge") until there's 5 carbon copies of him and her running around and calling him 'daddy' and her, 'mommy' :) It stopped being an "oops" at the third one but he simply can't stop himself!

He wasn't sure what his plan was but it def wasn't this: her being like a ray of sun when he comes back home, kids running around everywhere and practically climbing him like koalas, asking if he has anything for them, the oldest even snatches his knife out of it's sheath when he's preoccupied with grabbing this crawling little thing on the floor before it bonks its head.

"The babysitter cancelled at the last minute," she breaths a smile and a kiss on his lips while the 3 months old baby König is staring at them wide-mouthed. "Perhaps it's a good thing, otherwise you'd have too much time in your hands to knock me up again..."

[gideonisms]

I can't wait to reject even more men and be a childless crone who refuses to do what other people want forever

[swallowtail-ageha]

This is what having hypermobile ehlers danlos syndrome feels like

[additiva]

Guys I know how we get through this.

1. RPF every republican politician within an inch of their lives

2. Make sure it reaches them

3. Watch their tiny minds implode at their own feminization, infantilisation, babygirlification and fetishization.

Can't relate to the experiences of women or minorities? Welcome to the omegaverse 🙂‍↕️

[keepthetension]

still stuck on porjai, visibly pregnant, flirting with night

who fucking goes for it

i only know the asian culture i grew up in, obviously, and not thai culture. but the social stigma of being unmarried and pregnant? and having the nerve to still be flirting?? that's not the Good Girl thing to do, and i remember the way the Not Good Girls were treated and talked about where i grew up

so porjai actively trying to get dates? night finding out she's pregnant with her ex's kid and just. being fine with that? big deal to me