#* anon !

[hellsitegenetics]

The wikipedia article for autism

String identified: i went here and hit ctrl + a

Closest match: Carex pendula genome assembly, chromosome: 23 Common name: Pendulous sedge

(image source)

[paper-mario-wiki]

u look so good in ur coat picture <3333

you flatter me... (thanks i love it when people do that)

[princessbrunette]

jj would totally get something from your bra if it fell. like you’re eating skittles and one fell down and jj notices and without looking grabs it and eats it 😨😨 “i gotchu don’t even worry” like thank you? i guess? how romantic!

───── ⑅ ♡ ⑅ ─────

this is so bsf!jj to me. no boundaries, physical or verbally — so he’s constantly just in your space and asking you weird shit. you were used to it.

his eyes follow the bright red candy as it drops between the valley of your tits, disappearing into the crevice of that pink bra he could see poking out your tank top. your chin drops to your chest to acknowledge it, and before you can reach it, jj is yanking you by your shorts into his reach.

“oop, think ‘ya dropped a lil… somethin’.” he literally rolls up the sleeve of his light denim shirt, reaching down your top and rifling around. “damn it’s like a freakin’… fortress in here. where are ‘ya little guy?” he whispers in concentration, frowning as you blink up at him.

“jayj, i can get it myself.”

“ya but uh… i got a better reach y’know? longer fingers n’ all that good stuff.” he dismisses, another hand reaching up your tank top to shove itself beneath the other cup to locate it. “hold up i gotta bring in my associate.”

“jj!” you fall more towards him as he all but gropes you, a tongue between his lips.

“hm?”

“ouch, that’s my n—”

“uh, am i interrupting something?” john b stands at the doorway to the living room, eyebrow raised at the sight of jj’s hands vanished up your shirt in your bra. the two of you freeze, both heads snapping towards him as you blink obviously.

“i dropped a—”

“—she dropped a skittle down there so… just helpin’ out.” the blonde stares wide eyed at his friend, looking more guilty now like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“…right.” john b deadpans, before slowly spinning on his heel and walking out. a few seconds pass before jj’s fingers wiggle, and he slides his hands out your bra. you fix your shirt with a pout, and when you look back up at him he’s clutching the red skittle between two fingers with a proud grin.

“got it.” he announces simply before popping it in his mouth and chewing, beginning to walk away back to whatever he was doing before. you scrunch up your nose, staring after him.

“ew, jj!”

“mm, boob sweat. my favourite.” he calls back between chomps, wandering off to the next room.

───── ⑅ ♡ ⑅ ─────

[calithso]

Hi! Hmmm what about drawing childe with a crazy look on his face? (Btw i love your art its so pretty)

tysmmmm <33 here's your boy. he doesn't look as crazy as i would like but im pretty satisfied with it. hope you like it anonnn

i also didnt want to color it in. im too lazy to do it, there's too many small spaces <///3

[dnpbeats]

Is it bad i would rather have a doc than a tour? Like tours are cool and tatinof made sense since they had choreography and music numbers etc but if they are celebrating 15 years of dnp a sit down series would make so much more sense imo

Lowkey I agree just bc a doc is something we haven’t gotten from them/about them before!! Also bc with a doc I’m sure we’d get new stories/info we didn’t know before! Tours are so fun and I’m sure they’ll do one again but a documentary (released on Oct 19th perhaps…) would be so much more fitting for celebrating 15 years of their career together. Also if it had a limited release in select theaters that would be much more accessible than a tour bc it would be more affordable (and also checks out with Phil not answering the question about needing to save up)

[animatedglittergraphics-n-more]

requested by anon

[frownyalfred]

i have this one headcanon that’s like. after jason and bruce reconcile etc, bruce always maintains just the slightest bit of his “brucie” personality around jason. just a little bit happier, a little bit more enthusiastic abt things than regular-bruce. and then one day, this mask drops because bruce gets injured badly, and jason is understandably confused & “what the fuck” etc. but then bruce reveals that he didn’t really want to drive jason away again and he’s been basically masking a bit for a while. idk i think it’s a little bit sad and ooc but idgaf

I think it must simultaneously hurt and feel so good to have Bruce masking like that. Because it's so convincing, right? It feels good, knowing Bruce is happier, more upbeat, more likely to laugh. But also, Jason knows Bruce. He knows, deep down, or maybe he just forgot for a bit -- this isn't really Bruce. Not the Bruce underneath the mask, that oh so subtle, finely-crafted mask. And to know that he's working so hard, every single day, to put on that performance just for you? Agh.

[authorhjk1]

https://www.tumblr.com/coldfanbou/713193109093285888/yerin-looks-so-hot?source=share

Possible red idea for your colour challenge?

Light Red

(Jung Yerin X Male Reader)

Yerin's cute moans echo through the restaurant. The small sushi place near your house has become your favorite. The food is great. But that's not the main reason. The main reason is lying on the table you sat at, a couple of minutes ago.

That main reason's tight hole is squeezing your cock right now as you trust into her again and again.

You met the young singer a couple of weeks ago for the first time. Right here. After dinner and some rough sex in the restaurant's bathroom, the two of you came to an agreement. Whenever you called, she would come to this place. Whenever you wanted her immediately, she would send you a video or picture of her asking the address you are at.

You called Yerin today. An hour ago, to be exact. She did send you a picture.

"Can't wait to get used!"

Her text made you groan, desperate to finally do what you wanted to do to her during work today.

Just like right now. Yerin's dress is bunched up around her waist, revealing her tight snatch. Your thumb plays with her clit, making her arch her back off the black wooden table.

"Oh, god! Harder!"

She is in no position to voice her demands and so you put her in her place. A loud cry, filled with a mixture of pleasure and pain is, the result as you slap her left cheek. Not too hard, but she makes a surprised face, her hand holding the red cheek.

"Quiet."

You groan, afraid you are going to get caught. She is always very loud, always begging you for more.

"What do I have to do to shut you up once and for all, hugh?"

Yerin is about to give you a cheeky reply as you forcefully bottom out inside of her. It makes her yelp instead, her hips lifting off the table. Holding her down with one hand, you reach for a piece of sushi with your other.

"One piece won't be a challenge for you, slut. Right?"

You mock her, pushing the sushi past her lips.

Yerin is unable to reply. Your thumb on her clit and the food in her mouth stopping her from doing so.

Another piece quickly follows the first and a third one joins as well. Both of Yerin's cheeks are now bulging. You slap both of them respectively, making them sting.

"Are-you-finally-quiet?"

Moans are replaced by sobs. Her lustful stare turns into watering eyes. Her pussy tightens around you and you decide to give her the final blow. Yanking the thin straps of her dress off her shoulders, you expose her chest.

With every thrust you take, her tits bounce slightly. Without warning, you slap the right one. Before Yerin can even let out a cry, you hit the left one too.

The result is Yerin's climax. You'd found out that she has a thing for pain a couple of days ago. She likes getting punished.

A couple of pieces of rice escape her mouth as it forms an O shape. Her body quivers atop the table. Her nails digging into the wood. One leg escapes your grip, knocking over a bowl of rice. With a thud, it hits the carpet on the floor, making a mess.

"Horny idiot."

You growl at Yerin, reaching forward to wrap a hand around her throat. Increasing the pace of your thrusts, you don't give her time to calm down from her orgasm. Your hand on her thigh squeezes her so hard that it's gonna leave bruises, while the one on her throat starts to cut off her air supply.

Yerin starts choking, more food flying out of her mouth and landing on the table, her hair and her face.

"I've had enough of you, slut."

Both of your hands leave her body and your each for the red dress around her waist. Without even thinking about the consequences for a second, you grab the hem. A loud, drawn out tearing sound echoes through the room as you tear Yerin's whole dress apart. A huge rip at the front. From top to bottom.

You lean over the now naked woman, trapping her in place with your weight as you start pulling out the remaining sushi in her mouth. Once that's done, Yeri tries to talk again, but you quickly shove her torn dress inside her mouth. It also covers her face once you let go of it.

The sight makes you fuck her harder. Yerin, completely naked, her torn dress stuffed into her mouth. This is what she signed up for. She gladly excepts whatever you throw her way.

"I'm gonna ruin you, you know? Little by little. Everytime. Until you actually want me to use you in public. On stage, on the streets, during a fan sign. Everywhere."

You can barely hear her muffled moans as you keep fucking her. Her tight pussy sucks you in like a black hole. Always hungry. Never satisfied. Just like you, whenever she sends you a half naked picture, or a video of herself.

"Gonna cum, fuck!"

You groan, rubbing across her clit for a little longer, enjoying the fullness of her thighs one last time, by squeezing them harshly. A moment before you climax, you pull out. Wanting to paint her whole body with your cum. The first streak hits her stomach. From her navel, up to her tits. The second one hits the red dress. It's already ruined anyways. The third rope of your cum hits her chest and the last one, as your legs buckle from this insane pleasure and beautiful sight, lands on her dark hair.

Your masterpiece is finished. And you are drained completely. You are satisfied. And as you start getting dressed, you don't even think about how Yerin is supposed to get out of here.

[valyrfia]

top five lestappen moment on track or off track from you to change the vibes

You do know how to sweet talk a woman.

5. Lestappen Monaco 2024 hug. Biased because I just have fond memories of this one including but not limited to me putting my phone on the table in a coffeeshop and sliding it across to @thearchercore like it's a particularly sensitive piece of blackmail, but there's literally zero reason looking back on it for Charles to have gone in for that hug. He didn't do it for his future teammate, why Max? WHY THE WAIST? MEN DON'T KNOW THE WAIST EXISTS? It's compelling as hell, and raises a lot of open questions that's for sure.

4. The Austria 2023 wink that's been immortalised across a thousand thirst edits. Charles' entire face goes laser focused the second he sees Max, he winks, proceeds to say good job, Max blushes like Bridgerton protagonist. What's best is that I've seen this in every single Charles thirst edit ever and everyone is slightly ?! when they discover Charles was doing all this at MAX.

3. On track sex at Silverstone 2019. Each other driving like madmen and Charles coming to press afterwards grinning ear to ear saying it's the most fun he's had in his career. Compare to Nico Rosberg's most recent comments about being terrified driving wheel to wheel with Max because Max is a nutcase. It's proof that Max and Charles are able to race each other like no one else, it's the thesis of the entire pairing.

2. The first padel date in October 2023. Lives were changed. Something shifted. Lestappen Gate 2023 began. @tsarinablogs was on a place and I was freaking out in her undelivered messages. Internet went wild. First inkling they might actually be proper friends. What a time to be alive.

1.The 2023 Vegas double interview. With the marriage jokes flying about that weekend it was just perfect timing. Max and Charles' little nerdy racer 'come in', 'copy!' back and forth, them answering questions like a couple while being perfectly weird about each other. I miss them. It was peak Lestappen (so far!) and we didn't even know it.

+1 honourable mention to Austria 2022. I can't not include this iconic moment. Max beaming like HE'S won the grand prix, the sex tape on the podium. It's a Lestappen cornerstone and cemented itself and the ship in the F1 RPF history books.

[diminuel]

Crocodile, full of unwanted hormones: HES SO SMALL IF ANYONE HARM HIM IM GONNA GO BALISTIC

Dragon, generally a softie: MY TINY SON IM GONNA CRY

Iva, just happy to be there: A LITTLE FUTURE ANARCHIST IS BORN!!

Garp, able to ruin any moment: You two birthed a runt why is my grandchild small?

*gigglesnort*

Garp, seriously.

[hellsitegenetics]

Is there any reason why you BLAST that Dottore fangirl so much?

they're a biologist working for a rival company and i've been contracted to wizard attack them to slow down their research so my company can get more funding

[paper-mario-wiki]

Hi! If you don't mind me asking, where's your profile picture from? Genuine question.

it's a painting of me!

specifically, it's a painting of me smoking weed and ignoring my job.

[princessbrunette]

hey princess, how do you think rafe would react to bunny acting abit different after a particularly rough fuck and punishment for behaving badly.

like bunny is sitting on the bed still shaking from it, so she crawls to rafe for comfort and rafe still being in a bad mood is like "gonna start your shit again huh?" expecting her usual behaviour. but she just freezes then backs away saying a quiet "no,sorry". like shes quiet and does everything to not upset him.

just wondered how you think he would take it, like it being so rough that she starts overthinking things.

(՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞) 𝜗𝜚 ݁ ˖ ◜ ♩ 🐰

i mean he’s mean but he’s not a monster. as we’ve seen in the show, he doesn’t like when people he cares about are actually scared of him — so i think his face would fall when you back up and he’d feel kinda stung. even if he’s in a bad mood still he’ll open his arms to you, yanking you to his chest.

“alright, hey— c’mere. don’t be like that i — i have to punish you okay? do you understand? gotta do the hard thing sometimes and put you in your place or you’re gonna keep disrespecting me. i don’t take joy in it, kid.” he sighs, indulging you with a hand rubbing your back. he feels you sniffle and he sighs. “c’mon baby.”

“sorry.”

“quit apologising. alright? it’s done. s’over now you’re — you’re forgiven. yeah?” he briskly wipes your tears away and raises his eyebrows, holding your face to stare into your eyes. “yeah?” he repeats and you nod. “good girl. you’re still my girl. just gotta cut all this crazy shit out so we don’t find ourselves in this situation.”

(՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞) 𝜗𝜚 ݁ ˖ ◜ ♩ 🐰

[rafeysdoll]

reader trusting bsf!rafe with her life and believing anything he says even if he’s lying😭

this is so real . he will lie about the stupidest stuff too just because he knows he can get away it and you’ll believe him regardless of what nonsense he sums up this time. and even if you get slightly confused or look like you’re thinking about it too much he’ll just tsk and caress your cheek while saying, “hey, what— what’s there to think about? y’know i’ll always look after you, don’t worry ‘bout it, i got it. have i ever lied to you pretty?” like uhm yes you have but eek!!! 🎀

[macfrog]

If you ever feel up to it - a little short story from the scom universe about reader and Joel deciding to have a second baby or finding out they're pregnant for the second time would warm my cold dead heart <3

i am. so. sorry. for the word count on this i truly do not know what happened. but i had a lot of fun with it, so. hopefully y'all do, too. happy fathers day! x

jellybean ~4k words | series masterlist warnings: pregnancy symptoms (feeling and being sick, horniness + sleepiness. aka me even when not pregnant), 99% just duckie vs her mom

Duckie spills the secret on a Friday.

The morning is lazy, slow. The breathing of the sea across a plain of beach. Your fingers sift through her hair like the breeze through sun-bleached pages. The way she and the sun tint the room peach.

Sarah sprawls out across the spot still warm on her dad’s side of the bed. She’s in a habit of waking up early to sneak through to your room, lift the bottom of the covers, and army crawl between your bodies.

Joel’s in a habit of stirring to the heat of her at his back, her tiny toes at his spine, and turning to scoop her in one arm. They sleep curled into one another, mouths catching flies.

This morning, though, she’s up to something. She brought a secret.

She’s flat-out on her stomach, pens scratching at the paper. There’s the scent of cherry and lemon and green apple tangling in the air. Taut frown on her face, tongue poked with concentration. She looks just like her dad.

She pauses and looks up at you. “What color is this part?” she asks, dabbing at the blank hubcap.

“Silver,” you reply, fixing the cap back onto the grape pen before it stains your sheets.

She huffs. “I don’t have silver, Mama.”

You tap on the page. “Daddy’s wing mirrors are black, but you did ‘em green. The colors don’t matter, do they?”

But it’s seven a.m., and you’re sharing only the red jellybeans for something of a pre-breakfast snack (the four-year-old’s idea), and you’re exhausted despite having slept the full night, and she keeps halting any time Joel’s humming quietens – just in case he spoils his birthday surprise.

She hunkers down with the lemon pen to nail the emblem of his truck, and you figure – color is just the least of it. Truthfully, to your kid – and so, to you, too – nothing has ever mattered more.

You cup her cheek and lift her gaze back to meet yours. “How about I grab you a glitter pen today, just for the wheels?”

She grins. Little milk teeth, gappy and gummy. Peach fuzz cheeks, sweet as the rest of her, a perfect fit in the palm of your hand.

I love you I love you you’re my whole world I love you, you want to say.

Instead: “Only if we tidy your room later. Deal?”

“Deal, Mama,” Sarah giggles, and her little ink-stained hands splay out across the page again.

She scribbles only a few more splotches of color before you both notice it.

The sudden silence.

The water’s stopped running. The shower screen rattles as he pulls it back. Dripdripdrip from the showerhead straight down to the empty basin.

Sarah twists to watch Joel’s disembodied arm blindly grab for a towel folded on the sink. It whips off out of sight, and he calls through from the bathroom.

“Duckie? You still there?”

“Gogogo,” you whisper, helping your daughter cover her dad’s drawing with blank sheets. “Leave the jellybeans, Duck, save yourself!”

She finds the entire thing hysterical. Swinging her masterpiece under one arm, two fistfuls of rainbow pens, springing from the mattress like it suddenly caught flame. She throws herself from the foot of the bed and dashes across the hall to her own room, candy scattering in her wake.

Joel’s head cranes around the doorframe. “Where’d she go?”

You smile, shrugging. Chewing innocently on a jellybean. “That’s funny. She was here a second ago.”

He pads over to the bed, towel slung loose around his hips. Smirks, when your hungry eyes descend his figure – the bearlike shape of him, all muscle and fur, toned where he needs it but soft where you want it.

He cages over you, dark hair dripping with the smell of citrus, skin sticky.

His lips are like velvet against yours. Tongue still singed with coffee. A low growl from his throat when you lean forward to lick into his mouth.

“Smell so goddamn good,” you murmur, dipping your head to bury into the crook of his neck.

His beard is fuzzier when it’s damp, natural masculine musk melded with the fresh soap and rich aftershave he uses. All honey and oatmeal, mixed with a woodsy scent – and fuck, it’s intoxicating. Moreso than usual – stronger and sexier.

You take his hands and lower them to your hips, letting his fingers knot around the baggy material of your – his T-shirt. Tugging on it, exposing the slip of delicate lace on your hips.

“Darlin’,” Joel warns, “we’re late. We still gotta drop Duckie off – If she walks in –”

You groan, huffing back into the mattress. The weight between your legs ripples over the horizon, pulses into weak nothing.

Joel fixes the shirt back down to your thighs just as the thunder of his daughter’s footsteps rumbles back into the room.

Tonight, he breathes, slicking some of the hair from his face.

You grin, taking his hand to pull yourself back up.

Sarah materializes in the doorway, a lingering half-girl. Smiling from behind the frame, twisting the ball of her foot into the floor.

“Hi, Duck,” Joel says, still playing with your fingers.

“Hi.”

“You look guilty.”

Her grin widens. She totters into the room, launches herself onto the bed, and nuzzles into your side. She squirms when Joel digs his fingers into her waist.

The beats of her laughter drum against your ribs, the same way her fists used to when she lived inside you.

“Alright.” You cradle her, her little head tipping back to wake the rest of Austin up with her squeals of glee. “Are we ready for some actual food, now?”

Joel chuckles, reaching for his mug.

Sarah nods from your lap. Her eyes drift down to the print on your tee. “Mama?”

“Mhm?”

“Do they like jellybeans?”

You frown. “Does who like jellybeans?”

Her finger prods lightly into your tummy. “The baby.”

Joel chokes, splattering coffee into his fist. He slams the mug down, pounds his chest clear of liquid.

“There’s no – Jesus, Joel,” you swipe mocha flecks from the sheets, “Told Sarah to be careful with her pens and then you spray coffee all over the…”

Sarah rolls off, cackling. “Silly Daddy,” she hoots, leaping on the bedroom floor.

“Hey,” you usher her over to the door, “Why don’t you go pick out what you wanna wear today? I’ll be right behind you. Quit tryna give your dad a heart attack, okay?”

“The baby, Mama,” she’s repeating, walking like a little convict. She turns over the threshold to her room like it’s a cell, her pink pajama uniform and guilty expression to go with it. Still laughing, swallowing the ticklish bursts when she notices you’re shaking your head.

“There is no baby.” You kneel before her, repeating, “No baby. Just you. How about your T-shirt with the butterflies?”

It seems to distract her enough. Thank Christ. She gasps, inspired, and twirls off to find the tee.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, pushing back to your feet.

Joel’s flapping the sheets when you slip back into your room, still clearing his throat. Half-dressed: a white T-shirt over his broad chest and a pair of black boxers. Soaked hair clinging to the back of his neck and drying in flicks across his forehead.

Jesus, you want to pull him back over you and let him have his way.

You close the door over and spin, hands on your hips. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Me?” he croaks. “Did you hear what she just said?”

“You’ve known this kid for four years, Joel, you really can’t tell when she’s fucking with you? She’s my kid, keep up.”

“Just seemed an awfully –” he thumps his chest again, “– awfully specific thing to say.”

“She’s in a phase I think,” you reply, catching the pillow he tosses across. “She’s telling stories. Last week, her pre-K teacher congratulated me our supposed wedding. Asked to see pictures of the Mickey Mouse officiant.”

“Jesus,” he grumbles. “She really bought that?”

You mimic the breezy voice: “Sarah was very convincing.”

Joel scoffs. “I don’t know if I can take a lying phase and a copying phase at the same time. Every goddamn word I say, she’s gotta repeat it.”

“She idolizes you,” you straighten the sheets, “I think it’s endearing.”

“Hm. Just wait until it’s you.”

He wanders around the bed, pulls your back against his chest. His arms cross over your tummy, lips pressing into your shoulder where his shirt has slipped.

“How much harder would two be?” he mumbles into the bare skin.

“Two Sarahs?” You scoff.

Joel laughs. “Yeah, you’re right. I forget she runs on chaos and jellybeans.”

“Yup,” you turn in his arms, linking yours behind his neck, “And there ain’t no point in talking about it anyways, because I am not fucking pregnant.”

He rolls his forehead against yours, stealing bristly kisses. “Okay.”

“I’m not, Joel.”

“I believe you, baby.”

Sarah’s bedtime is a liberal eight, eight thirty on weekends. She likes to sit up, lodged between you and Joel on the couch, and help pick the movie you two will watch once she’s in bed.

Once – and only once – Joel tried to fool her by pretending to play her choice, then switching as soon as she went down.

The kid quizzed him on the movie the next morning. He failed. She’s never forgotten.

Tonight, though, Joel’s out. Some game that you know and care too little about sports to learn the name or importance of. He’s with some buddies at the local bar, probably nursing his second beer in as many hours, and counting down the minutes until he can come home to his girls.

Sarah snores soundly, slumped at your side as though butter wouldn’t melt. The flicker from the TV across her face, the gentle mumbling of the voices onscreen. Her hands limp in her lap, fingers idling in a pink snack bowl.

You admire her, stealing a piece of her popcorn. Teeth grinding down when you remember dishing it for her earlier, hearing her curious voice ask whether or not the baby likes popcorn more than jellybeans.

Nope, you sang, tossing a handful in your mouth as you passed her the bowl. Imaginary babies don’t eat popcorn.

She snorted (which unnerved you, because what the fuck is this kid finding so funny?), and followed you to the living room so close that you could feel her toes at your heels.

Some of the kids in her class have siblings. Some older, but mostly younger. It’s the only fucking explanation, the only thing that explains this sudden interest in the real estate of your uterus.

She’s going through a phase, you tell yourself, suckling on popcorn. But then – how many fucking phases do kids go through? Which phases did you go through?

Barney & Friends. That was a fucking phase. Refusing to leave the house without the hoodie your mom bought you from the Museum of Natural History, even in the height of summer. Ketchup and broccoli, your boyfriend at seventeen, frisbeeing your neighbor’s newspaper and aiming for his flowerpots.

Phase, phase, fucking phase.

Does she know something you don’t?

…No. You took a test just last week. Shut up. Stop letting the kid into your fucking head.

Joel’s keys jangle on the other side of the door, shunting into the lock with a sound which stills your brain.

You tilt your head over the back of the couch, your man’s beard tickling your nose as he kisses you. “Evening.”

“Missed you,” he whispers against your lips. He straightens and tugs the jacket from his shoulders. “She not in bed yet?”

“She fell asleep down here,” you reply. “I got too tired to carry her up.”

He caresses your forehead, big pillowy palm. “You feelin’ okay?”

“It’s been a long day,” you grumble.

Joel smiles. He flops down onto the couch beside you, reaching over to stroke Sarah’s head.

You roll, solid as a rock, curling into his side. “She keeps saying it, Joel. She keeps fucking saying it.”

His chest jumps, tectonic plates moving with a laugh. “You’ve met your match, honey. Produced a professional little shit.”

“One of the other moms from her class is pregnant,” you mumble. “That’s gotta be it, right? That’s where she’s getting it from?”

“Maybe,” Joel muses. His fingers link with yours. “Why don’t you take a test anyways? Settle it in your mind?”

It startles you awake, even if only enough to prove the fucking point.

“No, Joel!” you hiss, body jerking. “If I take a test, and it turns out negative – which it will – she wins! My four-year-old fooled me. No,” you pluck spilled popcorn from your lap, pinging it back into the bowl, “I know this kid. I gave birth to this kid. She is not fucking winning.”

“Alright, baby,” he coos, “it’s okay. I won’t let the four-year-old fool you.”

You glower. “Thanks, asshole.”

He chuckles. “She’d make the best big sister, though. She would,” he insists, when you huff back against his chest. “She’d love being the oldest. Get to be bossy, get to call the shots. Get to protect them, no matter what.”

Your voice feels so small, as inquisitive as your daughter’s when you blink up at him. “Were you protective over Tommy?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, he was annoying as all hell – and I told him so – but anyone else had anythin’ to say about him, and – well, they had me to deal with.”

“Big scary Joel Miller,” you whisper, yawning into his shirt. “I knew him once.”

“Mhm,” he rumbles, “You sure did.”

You look up again, blinking all doe-eyed and dreamy. Already half-asleep.

“He never scared me,” you whisper.

Joel smiles.

“Well, you scared the hell outta him.”

Saturday morning, you wake to an empty bed. No snoring man, no scribbling girl. Just you – a starfish on the mattress. Bathing in waves of late-morning sun, sheets for coral, body as heavy as though you really are at the bottom of the ocean.

Her giggles carry all the way upstairs. Sarah. They surf into the room on a sunbeam, sounds like bubbles which shatter and sprinkle over your aching body.

You smile into Joel’s pillow, breathing in the smell of him, and peel your eyes open.

It’s ten thirty. Definitely – you blink three times and rub at your eyes, just to make sure. Ten thirty, and something’s swirling behind your navel. Something that sharpens, sours, when you push yourself upright.

“Oh, shit,” you rasp, and throw yourself across the room.

You barely make it, collapsing in a heap at the toilet. Your stomach empties in seconds; three heavy, painful gags and your head is in the bowl, choking on last night’s dinner.

“Motherfucker,” you spit, gasping, “Oh, Jesus.”

You’re sick. You’re just sick. Sarah probably caught something from pre-K, passed it on without even knowing. And, hey – you feel better, now that that happened.

You’re just sick. Nothing else.

“Mornin’,” Joel calls, watching as you stagger into the kitchen.

Sarah mimics his drawl. “Mornin’, Mama.”

“Hi, Duckie.” You crumple into the chair beside her, shoulders hunched. The smell of burnt toast and grape juice twists up your nose, and you suck in a slow breath.

Joel sweeps a hand over your forehead. He tips your jaw up to face him. “You alright? Thought we heard running.”

Sarah rips a slice of toast in two. She stares at the fluffy insides, the jam dripping from the tear. The sight of it lifts the hairs on your skin, the gloopy mess splattering onto her plate.

“Just feel kinda…funny,” you slur, turning away.

“Funny? Funny how?”

“Funny how?” your daughter parrots.

You shrug. Every word, every inhale makes you feel even more nauseous. “Probably just ate something.”

“Heard that one before,” Joel drones, and you throw him a flat look.

Sarah licks the jam from her fingers. She holds her tiny hands up to her dad, snorts when he pretends to bite at them.

“Eat your breakfast, Duckie,” he says then – in his Dad voice. And in something softer, kinder: “Can I make you somethin’?”

You swat the idea away, but it’s already churning in your stomach again. “Just gotta – get over whatever it – is.”

The table falls silent. Joel and Sarah stare blankly at one another. When you turn to look at your daughter, she’s staring straight back. Smirking.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you clip, wincing again at the dribbling jam.

“Alright,” Joel utters, “I think you oughta take a test now.”

“That is not what this is,” you groan, petulantly pushing up from your chair.

He takes your hand, steadying you. “No? I was thinking about it, baby, and I don’t think we’ve been safe enough to be so sure.”

You dump your golden toast in the trash and turn, crossing your arms. Your shoulders lift. “We’re not being any less safe than we have been the last four years.”

“Safe,” Sarah says, and Joel holds a finger up.

“No,” he tells her. “No. Not that word. Go back to funny.”

She beams at him. “You’re funny, Daddy.”

He sighs, pacing over. “Look,” he lowers his plate into the sink, “I’ll take Duckie to the park. Let you rest up, give you a quiet house for the morning. But darlin’, if you’re not better by tonight, you’re takin’ a test.”

You grimace. “But she –”

“I know –” he grits his teeth, “– I know you don’t want her to be right. But I want you to be okay, more ‘n I want to prove my child wrong. Like it or not, you’re taking a damn test.”

Your eyes flit across to the kid swinging her legs in her chair, the splotch of jam down her Peppa Pig T-shirt. Your greatest accomplishment and your biggest challenge, wrapped up into a hundred-centimeter, jellybean-fueled monster.

Her cheeks lift, jam-covered and smug.

“Funny,” Sarah says, nodding.

The afternoon strings the sun high in the sky.

You’ve been home alone for the better part of an hour, busying yourself by cleaning to take your mind off the nausea tugging at your esophagus. Making and remaking beds, folding laundry until your fingers cramp.

Sarah’s room has never been tidier. Joel’s workshop has never seen so little dust. And you have never been more determined to prove your four-year-old wrong.

You’re lingering in the bathroom, the window gaping. Sucking in breath after breath of fresh air – which only serves to tickle the acid burning its way up your throat, entice it further.

You’re emptying the cabinets, reorganizing them into some senseless order. Playing Tetris with boxes of Band-Aids, slotting in tubes of toothpaste. You blindly reach behind your hip for the next box – a nearly empty thing which rattles when you lift it, jitters as though nervous.

You glance down.

“Fuck off,” you hiss, throwing it on the shelf beside some tampons.

It stares back at you, as blinding as the sun. The two display window examples, pregnant and not pregnant, like a wink peering out from the dull cabinet.

Your gums taste of bitter bile, rancid. Teeth furry and aching. Your entire body aches – though nothing quite so bad as the space below your ribs, still tender from all your retching.

Slowly, your hands slip down your front to cup your lower tummy. Rounder than before, suppler – bloated, even.

“’s from all the throwing up,” you tell nobody in particular. Maybe yourself. There’s a desperate edge to your voice, almost a plea.

But then – a plea to who? For what? There was nothing you loved more than carrying Sarah for nine months. Duck. Start saying duck. Baby Duck.

You were never on your own. She was right there. Someone to talk to, someone to complain to. Someone to weep to, in the quietest lulls of night.

Her language came to you as easily as your own. All her kicks and punches, her fucking acrobatics while you tried to sleep. It was love, in its most chaotic form.

And you loved her, the very moment you saw those two lines. The very moment you realized she’d been in there the whole time.

You realize now, squatted on your bathroom floor, that it feels the exact same. A warmth, radiating from your very core, if only you’d pay it enough attention to feel it.

Like there’s someone there. Right there.

“If you’re fucking with me,” you warn your stomach, reaching for the single test, “I will lose my shit.”

Love, in its most chaotic form bursts through your bedroom door no less than half an hour later.

“Hi, Mama!” Sarah sings, tearing through the room with her hands behind her back. Her knees bump against the side of your bed, the air about her summer-warm and pollen-sweet.

“Hi, little Duck,” you mumble, voice swollen. You wipe sleep from your eyes, asking, “How was the park?”

She answers with a wide grin on her face, whipping out a small, shabby bunch of flowers. Dandelions and daisies tangled around one another, loose petals scattering over your bedsheets.

“Oh, baby,” you push yourself up, ignoring the sickly weight in your stomach, “Are these for me?”

She nods. She dusts her hands free of grass when you take the bouquet. And then, as you smell them and hum with delight, she turns.

First, over to the dresser. She stares at her reflection, pokes at some of the makeup on the table. Then over to the window – where her breath fogs the glass. You hear the whack of Joel’s tailgate closing, and she tracks him into the house, before examining the windowsill.

You watch nervously as she drifts back over to the bed, a curious hop to her movements. Inspecting, like she knows there’s something waiting to be found. Someone.

“Did you have fun with Daddy?” you ask.

“Yep,” her small voice says, distant and distracted. She disappears into the dim bathroom.

You slump back down on the mattress, dropping the flowers in a clump on your bedside table. “I don’t even know when I fell asleep, baby girl,” you say through a yawn.

Sarah doesn’t reply.

“Duckie?”

“What’s this?”

You lift your head. “What’s wh…Oh, n-no, Duckie, wait –”

She flees past you, one fist raised and wielding the pregnancy test.

“Sarah! Jesus, fuck –”

You’re chasing after her before you have a chance to consider it – nausea be damned. She’s squealing something, roaring with laughter, blitzing out into the hallway. She swivels, ladders down the stairs backwards, leaps straight into the arms of –

“Christ, Sarah –”

Joel stumbles backwards with the force she throws at him. She’s safe in his arms by the time you reach the top of the stairs, waving the stupid stick around his head like it’s a magic wand.

“Daddy!” Sarah cries.

He glances up to you: hunched over the top step, panting, clutching your stomach. He pinches the test from her grasp. “What do we got here, baby duck?”

She kicks her feet. She has no fucking idea what they have, but she knows you didn’t want her near it – and if you know your kid, you know that’s all the catalyst she needed to fucking take it.

You slowly make your way down towards them, smirk growing the nearer you draw.

Joel glances down to the test. The creases by his eyes deepen. He hugs Sarah closer.

“Two...two means...pregnant, right?” he asks.

You sigh, nodding. “Mhm.”

His head lifts.

He breaks, the second he sees your expression. Eyes glassy, tears spilling onto your cheeks. The same smile you wore that June morning: sleep-deprived and shellshocked, a love pumping through your veins so strong that you thought you might burst with it.

Joel reaches for your hand, reels you in against his body.

“Shit,” he laughs, holding the test up.

Your shaking hands take it from him – though you already knew what it says. You were dreaming of it all when Sarah broke into your room.

Dreaming of linked hands and echoed giggles; of bunkbeds and matching surnames, of all four seats in the truck filled and all four chambers of your heart spoken for.

Dreaming of one on each hip, one in each hand. Dreaming of them tag teaming Joel, of the word kids slung with his southern twang. My kids, the kids, our kids. All ours.

Dreaming of two Sarahs, goddamn it. Because nothing ever completed your life as effortlessly as one Sarah, and – hell, she was born to follow in her dad’s footsteps and become the elder Miller sibling.

“Shit,” you agree, turning to sob into Joel’s chest.

“Duckie,” Joel says, voice hoarse and choked by tears, “You’re gonna be a big sister.”

She giggles, tracing the damp lines down your cheeks. As she reaches your jaw, the elation on her face slowly dwindles into something of a frown.

Your lips part to repeat it – a big sister, Duck – when her tiny voice steals the air from your lungs.

“Shit!”

[dcandyland]

hi there!!! possibly new friend?!