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kafka-ish · 4 years

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a long time coming | r.t.

when a familiar face shows itself in derry, a familiar feeling picks up in richie’s heart

word count: 8,012

warnings/included: nsfw (smut, fingering, and regular vanilla sex, first time stuff), fluff (like... a conspicuous amount of fluff), fem!reader

a/n: gL gamers

y/n y/l/n was coming back to Derry.

To any other bystander, this wasn’t news. However, to Richie Tozier, it was because Richie Tozier loved y/n y/l/n.

He loved her when they were five and she had introduced herself as the girl who moved in next door. He loved her when they were ten and she made friendship bracelets for both of them (which he would later find out she made friendship bracelets for all the Losers). He loved her when they were thirteen when he should’ve spent his time running from the bullies at his toes instead. And he loved her when they were fifteen when he was writing love letters. But she’d never see them because she was away at some fancy boarding school in New York, per her parents’ request.

“I don’t see why you gotta go,” Richie said glumly. He was looking down and kicked at the dirt beneath his feet. Even if this would be the last time he’d ever see her, it would be too hard to look her in the eyes.

Richie was the last one y/n told about Hoosac School. But if y/n had the option, she wouldn’t have told him at all. It was hard enough for her to bid her goodbyes to Bill, Stan, Eddie, Bev, Ben, and Mike.

Naturally, Beverly was the first one she told. She was the only other girl in the Loser’s Club and the one y/n hung out with the most aside from Richie. Beverly was a blubbering mess. The brown mascara she applied delicately was running down her cheeks in ugly streaks and her red hair would sit tangled on her head for the next few days.

Bill was next, but Bill knew everything. He found out from Bev the next day and confronted her about it at school. And y/n would sob into his shoulder and ask him what to do.

“Tuh-tell the others,” he said sympathetically.

So she did.

She told Ben, Eddie, and Stan in her next period she shared with him. Ben sadly stroked her arm and told her he could have one of his CupCakes at lunch. y/n smiled, the sweet gesture easing the pain from her mind. And she told him she would take him up on that offer only if they were orange flavored.

Eddie cried that day, but he passed it off as an allergic reaction to the different brand of air freshener Mrs. Clarke used. Stan and Ben were just kind enough to believe him.

Stan was always the voice of reason. He told her this would be a great opportunity to learn new things and make new friends, but he also made her swear she’d write him—them—every week and call every night. He thought y/n would laugh at him for being clingy and compulsive but she didn’t. She took his hand in his, squeezing it firmly when she assured him she’d call every night and write every week.

But a certain sadness washed over her when it was Mike’s turn to receive the news.

It was on an early Saturday morning when he did. She offered to help him out with the farm—partly to spend time with him and partly to get some wear in her new overalls she’d thrifted before she left.

“I know… you’ve probably already heard.” y/n swallowed harshly before continuing. She was aimlessly shoveling a hole in the ground and she stared at the soil as if it were his brown eyes because this would be harder for her to say than harder for him to hear. “I’m leaving Derry.”

The sun wasn’t even up yet, but Mike was able to comprehend her words just fine. “When?” They were both turned away from each other—her working on the hole and him working on the bean sprouts.

“A month after school lets out. Don’t worry, Mikey. There’s still time for me to help you on the farm.”

“Just so you can dig holes in my daddy’s soil? I don’t think so.” Both y/n and Mike laughed. For a moment, y/n had forgotten about the packed boxes in her empty bedroom and the plane tickets her parents kept in an envelope for June the first.

And now y/n stood in front of Richie only a few days after she’d be boarding that plane because she’d been putting off telling him the way she did with the rest of the Losers.

y/n was staring at his forehead, desperately trying to meet his eyes. She didn’t care if the last time he’d be seeing her was with smudged mascara and red eyes, but she needed to see him. “My parents are making me,” she repeated. “If it were up to me I’d..”

“Don’t go,” Richie said abruptly, cutting her off. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her—even if her lips were bitten raw and her eyes welled with salty tears that he’d kiss away in his dreams when he went to bed that night. “To hell with your parents. You can live with me, kid. It’ll be like college but without the debt.”

y/n sniffed. Even though Richie was the funny one, she couldn’t bring herself to laugh. Maybe if the words were coming from Bill, Stan, or Ben, but not Richie. Not when her whole life was in front of her and there was no sign of him in it.

Richie frowned because if he couldn’t put a smile on her face, he didn’t know what would. A strong silence edged itself between the two of them. It wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either. He pushed up his glasses lazily with his index finger to get a better look at the sad sight ahead of him who was poorly trying to contain her sobs.

“Hey, kid.” Richie took her in his lanky arms. Neither of them said anything after that, but Richie couldn’t help but think if he said those three words maybe she wouldn’t have left.

“Well why didn’t you say so?” She’d say. They’d spend their next three years together attached to the hip before college sweeps them away. But they’d find each other later in life; at a record shop or on the streets of New York. y/n would ask “Richie, is that really you?” And Richie would reply in his British-man Voice:

“’Ello, luv. Don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

y/n would be left in a stunned sort of silence for a while—not because she was unsure if the person standing in front of her was him, but because she was in awe. In awe that she finally found him.

But now Richie didn’t have to wait. He didn’t have to wallow in his own pity because the girl he loved was no longer two states away, but a couple of minutes away as he paced back in forth in Stan’s room.

“Calm down, Richie.” Stan was laying on his bed, trying to ignore his friend’s loud footsteps. Even though he had forced Richie to take his shoes off before coming into his house, his feet still thumped loudly against the floor. He was uncharacteristically thrusting a baseball between his two palms. It cut through the air smoothly as it moved side to side in his soft hands.

“What do you mean calm down?” Richie stopped in his tracks so he could shoot him a cold stare. “How am I supposed to calm down?” His heavy steps had resumed. Stan sighed.

“Just don’t make such a big deal out of—”

“Don’t give me that shit, Stan.” Richie groaned and went to tug on the friendship bracelet y/n gave him from when they were in grade school. It was a habit he’d picked up when y/n left. Whenever he got nervous, or irritated, or missed her, his right hand would find his left and wind around the memento. Arguably, that friendship bracelet could be deduced to a tangle of old, ratty strings; better yet, trash. But in Richie’s magnified eyes, it was still the same bracelet made of vibrant blue and green yarn y/n had bought from the craft store and braided with her small, meticulous fingers.

“What shit?” Stan scoffed because sometimes Richie could be irrational. “It’s called honesty. And honestly, it’s just y/n. What could go wrong?”

What could go wrong? Hell, everything could go wrong. She could forget who I am. Or better yet, she would remember and hate me.

“She won’t hate you,” Stan said unconvincingly in his usual monotone voice. It was like he could Richie’s mind, but Richie was obvious when it came to this stuff. Painfully obvious.

“Wuh-what’cha guh-guh-guys talking ab-bout?” Bill let himself into the room without knocking. Neither of the two boys minded. “I br-brought my bb-b-base-ball cards. But I’m keeping the Babe Ruth—”

“We’re not trading today, Bill.” Stan put down the leathery ball which sat in his left hand and sat up exasperatedly.

“W-we’re not?” An odd sort of sadness flicked across his usually bright features and he pocketed the collectibles. “Ih-ih-if we weren’t you sh-sh… could’ve cuh-called me fuh-fifteen minutes ago.” He went down to sit on Stan’s bed with him but was met with a harsh stare and a scolding instead.

“Take your shoes off!” He screeched and Bill toed off his old, beat-up Keds.

“So, wuh-what are we doing… if wuh-we’re not trading?” Bill asked.

“Richie just wants to talk.” Bill’s nose scrunched like a child who had just been informed liver was for dinner.

“T-t-t-talk? Get a s-s-sex change while you’re at it.”

Both Stan and Bill laughed, and Richie only grumbled. “C’mon, guys.” His pacing had yet again stopped but Stan knew he wouldn’t stay still for long. “What should I do?”

Then, Bill knew what they were talking about. It wasn’t a secret that Richie liked y/n. But like was an understatement. It just remained unsaid between the Losers. Either because Richie wouldn’t hear the end of it if they did talk about it or because… what was there to talk about? There were only so many times six boys and one girl could sing ‘Richie loves y/n’ until it got old.

“Wuh-well…” The rest of Bill’s words were swallowed by a heavy build-up of saliva and replaced with new ones before either Stan or Richie could chime in. “What do yo-you wanna do?”

“Aw, man. Lots of things.” Richie took a seat next to Bill on the edge of Stan’s neatly made bed. Stan groaned and shoved a pillow over his flushed face. He was torn between wanting to hear the details and hating that Richie was taking this conversation to a sappy turn. “The first thing I’d do would probably pull her in for a hug and kiss her cheek… And then I’d—”

“Beep Beep, Richie.” Stan’s muffled voice came from under the pillow and Bill laughed in agreement.

“Kuh-kiss?” Bill asked skeptically.

“Yeah. I know that’s new vocabulary to you, Big Bill, but—”

“No,” Bill said, ignoring Richie’s previous, rude, comment. “I mm-mean, you cuh-cuh-can’t kiss y/n.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Richie said, only half-listening to what Bill was saying. But Bill’s next statement grabbed Richie’s (and Stan’s) full attention.

“I cuh-can’t. But her b-boyfriend wuh-houldn’t like it.”

“y/n has a boyfriend?” Both Stan and Richie said in unison. The pillow flew from Stan’s face and his eyes were now widened with interest.

“How’d you find out?” Stan sandwiched himself between Bill and Richie. Richie was almost falling off the bed and he wanted to scoff because if anything he was more a part of the conversation than Ol’ Stanny Boy.

“Oh-oh-over the phone. Sh-sh-she called muh-me and s-s-s-said some-thing about a guh-guy named Tr-Tr-Trevor Mmm-Martin. Nuh-Nothing s-s-serious at the tuh-time. Bb-but…”

Richie didn’t catch the bullshit spewing from Bill’s big mouth. His head was busy spinning in all different directions, and he felt as if he were going to puke. Though there were no signs of the tuna salad sandwich and salt and vinegar chips Stan and he shared trekking its way up to his throat and onto Stan’s just shampooed carpet. Was this what heartbreak felt like?

If so, it was one son of a bitch.

Richie couldn’t seem to enjoy himself for the rest of the day—or the rest of the week, for that matter. He didn’t laugh when Stan cracked a joke that Bill laughed at (something about Jews getting their dicks cut off as an alternative to hell). He didn’t race home to greet the girl next door he’d been longing to see. And he didn’t feel anything when that same girl was pressed against his chest during the scary part of the movie all of the Losers had planned to see.

It was a sort of ‘welcome back’ celebration for y/n. This whole week, actually, would be dedicated to y/n in regard to her return. Stan, Eddie, and Mike were the first ones at the theatre. They waited outside of the Aladdin Theatre, all three in a line while Stan checked his watch for what seemed to be hundredth time and Eddie counted the change in his pocket, hoping it’d be enough for snacks.

“Don’t worry about it, Eddie,” Mike reassured. He patted him on the back. It was firm but gentle at the same time. It calmed him. “If you don’t have enough for snacks, me or someone else can spot you. And don’t worry about paying back.”

Eddie visibly relaxed at his words but Mike didn’t know why he was all of the sudden anxious about something like that.

Just then, Bill and Bev came up. Beverly’s hair was held back in a blue cowboy bandana, a contrast to her red hair, as a makeshift hairband. Her white blouse almost blended against her pale skin and her blue jeans chafed because of how fast she was skipping. Bill was falling behind but he didn’t really care. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his denim board shorts and he walked—strolled—down the sidewalk as if he had all the time in the world.

“I’m so excited!” A harsh squeal erupted from Beverly’s lips and Eddie had to cup his hands over his ears.

“Jesus, Bev. You could blow out an eardrum with those lungs.” But he wasn’t too impressed with her vocal range.

Ben and Richie came up together. They were talking about some new comic issue—Ben looked really into it, but Richie just wanted to avoid the topic of y/n that he was sure was now prevalent in everyone’s minds. Beverly gave him a knowing smirk when the two finally reached the group and Richie displayed his best ‘what-the-fuck-do-you-mean’ expression when he really did know what the fuck she meant.

This left y/n to be the last of the Losers to arrive.

The rubber sole of Richie’s beat up left slip-on tapped impatiently against the hot cement. “How long does it take to get ready?”

“Do you think she got lost?” Ben asked curiously, hoping that wasn’t the case.

“We should go in. Y’know so seats don’t get taken.” Before the rest of the group could protest Richie’s lame idea in attempts to boycott seeing their long-lost friend, a familiar voice piped up.

“That’s awfully rude of you Tozier.” Richie turned around to see y/n. How could a person look the same, yet totally different at the same time? Her hair was longer from when he last saw her and there was a new glow in her eyes that Richie couldn’t help but think meant she lost her innocence. He could’ve sworn she got taller, but she was also wearing platform wedges with little white flowers on the straps which matched her baby blue sundress that came just above the knee.

“y/n!” Beverly was the first to say. She ran the not far distance between them and enraptured her into a tight hug. “I missed you so much! I can’t believe you left me here… with all boys.”

y/n didn’t miss a beat of Beverly’s sarcasm and rolled her eyes. “I know, how could I? I’m such a monster.” The two giggled for an ungodly amount of time which the boys summed up to a sort of telepathic communication between the two.

Ben was next to greet y/n. He said she and he could share a pack of Donettes this time and a nostalgic smile crinkled her eyes as she remembered how he shared his dessert with him when she left.

Mike, Eddie, and Stan were next. Mike told her that while there’s no work to be done on his father’s farm, they could still hang out. Eddie hugged her just like Bev had. And Stan scolded her for being late but then whispered a ‘thanks’ for keeping her promise of writing to him, even if it wasn’t every week.

y/n lingered behind to say hi to Bill when he opened the door for everyone.

“Luh-luh-long time no s-s-see. Stranger.” y/n didn’t realize the Losers were waiting for them.

“Nice to see you, too.” She nudged Bill’s arm with her elbow and walked in. They didn’t say much to each other because nothing had to be said. They had an unspoken connection. Bill was like her brother. Always knew what to say. Always there for her…

Richie was the last to greet y/n because unlike Bill, he didn’t know what to say. He could feel the words dancing on his tongue, but he knew they’d come out in either a stutter or gibberish. He was waiting at the candy counter, drumming his fingers on the glass while Ben ordered a large popcorn and Donettes. Mike paid for his own strawberry licorice whips—none of the Losers partook in his favorite candy. Beverly only got a soda, and Eddie bought his own personal popcorn, but if Stan asked, he could have a few kernels.

“Hi.” Richie looked like he had seen a ghost when y/n came up next to him. He shouldn’t have been startled by her, but he was.

“Hey…” He held off on calling her a cheeky nickname because she had a boyfriend and that would be wrong, and he had morals—

“Are you getting anything?”

That depends, are you for sale? Beep beep, Rich.

“Nothing really…really caught my eye.” He glanced at the menu one more time as if he hadn’t had it memorized from the thousands of other times he’s been there—alone or not.

“That’s too bad. I thought we could share a popcorn?” y/n asked hopefully. “Or a soda? If you’re trying to cut down on carbs.”

Richie laughed. “I thought you and Ben were sharing those mini nightmares.” His hand dove into his pocket anyway. You can never be too sure, right?

“It’s called balance,” y/n said all too knowingly. “Have you ever heard of salty and sweet makes the perfect combination?” She eyed him through her mascara coated lashes that he remembered from three years ago and Richie heard himself calling one of the girls at the concessions stand over for a large popcorn. Extra butter.

Was she the sweet and Trevor was the salty one of the pair? His mind was numb during the movie, except for the one persisting thought he couldn’t help but circle back to. y/n and Trevor sitting in a tree…

He felt the armrest that divided the seats fly up and a trembling body wiggle itself next to his. Her arms latched onto his torso tightly and her head buried itself into his tacky Hawaiian shirt. Slowly, Richie began to fall from his catatonic state. His eyes drifted down to her figure, squinting in the darkness of the theatre.

“Hey…” His large hand smoothed over her hair in petting motions as he cooed into her ear. “It’s all… this stuff’s all fake. It’s not real.” Her quiet, pathetic sobs continued throughout the rest of the movie. Richie still consoled her.

Only until the lights drew up and the Losers were the last to leave an empty theatre decorated with chewed up bubble gum, candy wrappers, and the remains of popcorn on the floor did y/n remove herself from his shirt.

“Sorry.” y/n cleared her throat and sat up straight as if nothing happened. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a horror movie.” She laughed, making fun of her own pitifulness.

“It was a h-h-horror movie. Not a d-d-drama.” Bill rolled his eyes but there was a smile on his lips.

“Girls, am I right?” Stan scoffed. He stood up, about to be the first of the Losers to leave the room until he stopped in front of y/n’s chair. “Don’t worry, I almost shat my pants.” Richie overheard him whisper in her hear.

y/n tried to eat the giggles trying to escape her mouth, but she couldn’t help it. Her laughter echoed in the empty theatre and the rest of her friends laughed with her. They didn’t understand what she was laughing at, they just missed the sound of her voice after so long.

Her small hand slipped into Richie’s sweaty one when the group met daylight which Mike was surprised at, even though they entered the Aladdin at one.

“What’re you doin’?” He asked, shaken up. They had officially fallen behind from the group, but it wasn’t like either of them cared. He took his hand from hers, opting to hold his own. Once his hand left hers he immediately missed the feeling. The warmth. The comfort. But his own would have to fair as a substitute for now.

“Just like old times… I thought.” y/n was flabbergasted at Richie’s antsiness. He wasn’t like this three years ago. Three years ago, he would’ve gladly accepted her hand in his. Three years ago, he would’ve scooped up her hand claiming that he doesn’t want her catching cold even though they stood in the summer heat.

Richie twirled his fingers around the end of his shirt. Old times. But the old times were different.

Richie Tozier was thirteen years old when he finally got his own bike to ride. He no longer had to ride double on Silver or walk to any of the functions that the Losers had planned. It wasn’t embarrassing, but no boy wanted to show up to the quarry or Aladdin Theatre riding on the back of Bill Denbrough’s bike, his arms actually wrapped around him. Especially if y/n would be seeing him.

So, he requested his parents buy him a bicycle of his own. Preferably green with a large bell so everyone knows when Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier was coming. Pretty please.

And after a few months, his parents finally complied. It was green but it, however, did not come with a bell.

“You’ll just have to come up with the money for that one on your own, son.” His dad told him. But that was fine by Richie. And he excitedly pedaled off to the Aladdin where his friends would be soon, in hopes to impress a certain somebody.

“W-w-wow, Ruh-Ruh-Richie. You got a bike?” Bill asked. He wondered why his friend never gave him a call, asking to come pick and him up—he just assumed he was walking today.

“Yeppers.” Richie proudly rode circles around his friends with his new ET Kuwahara. He couldn’t wait until y/n saw him on it.

“Wh-wh-when?” Bill was the most curious out of the group. He would miss hitching Richie rides, but he wouldn’t miss how tight his arms seemed to wind against his chest.

“Like, yesterday.” Richie shrugged and he was the last one to park his bike. He kept riding circles around the empty Sunday street until y/n and Bev showed up. y/n didn’t have a bike and Bev always walked with her out of courtesy.

“Hey, wide ride!” Beverly called while Richie tried to pop a wheelie.

“Stop it,” y/n giggled but Richie was too lost in his own world to hear her. Eventually, he parked it; carelessly setting it down with Silver and Stan’s, Eddie’s, Ben’s, and Mike’s bike. “You got a bike?” y/n asked, coming up from behind him. Richie grinned.

“Yeah, do ya like?” y/n nodded wordlessly.

“Green’s not my color, though… Why’d you get a bike?”

“’Cause riding double is lame.” He shrugged and they entered the movie theatre together while the rest of their friends waited for them. “Anywho, how ‘bout I take you home tonight?”

“I thought you said riding double was lame,” y/n repeated his words even though she didn’t think that.

“Well—you see… What I meant was—”

“Just kidding, Tozier. Only you think riding double is lame anyway.” y/n found herself giggling while paying for her small popcorn which Richie would end up sticking his fingers into later on.

So, Richie took her home that night (and the rest of the nights the Losers met up). Her arms wrapped around his torso in the way he used to wrap his around Bill’s. At first, it felt like he couldn’t breathe, but that could’ve been because there was a pretty girl sitting behind him and he would be responsible if they got hurt.

After a while, though, he got used to it. And the arms slung around his chest were like a seatbelt. Once in awhile, y/n would rest her chin against her shoulder. And if she were tuckered out from swimming or any of the other adventures the Losers were up against that day, he would find her dozing on his back. The breeze from his ET Kuwahara ripping through the hot air felt nice and a kind of superiority swelled in Richie’s chest for being the cause of that breeze.

The same breeze swept over y/n and Richie. The group was now long gone from their eye line, but they would’ve been anyway because of the path Richie and y/n would take to get home.

Richie had been oddly silent until they reached their houses; side by side, just like how the two friends stood. y/n took it upon herself to break that silence, but his jitters were contagious.

“We’re meeting up at the quarry tomorrow.” She turned to face him as she stood on the highest step of her doorstep. He was still taller than her.

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” Richie tried his best to avoid her steady watch that followed him, but it was hard. He so desperately wanted to see the twinkle in her ambitious, yet caring eyes which he missed. It wasn’t looking at her that was wrong, it was his thoughts—and Richie knew that—he just couldn’t bring himself to look at her while thinking those thoughts.

“You’re coming right?” Insecurity wavered in her voice. Richie was being weird. Richie was always weird, but something was… wrong. He didn’t greet her the first day she came home. y/n eventually concluded that she was just being selfish and that Richie was probably busy that day. But now Richie was being distant. Richie was never distant.

“’Ve been thinkin’ about it. You know I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to see Bev in her swimsuit—”

“Beep beep.” y/n wanted to laugh. She wanted to assume he was joking and think nothing more of it because that’s who Richie is. A jokester. Her heart couldn’t help but pang at the words and instantaneously the palms of her hands felt clammy. “Can you meet me beforehand? I thought we could go together?”

“Together?” Richie’s voice cracked.

“Yeah, goofball.” Again, her eyes searched for his under his mess of brown hair and coke bottle glasses, but they were playing a serious game of hide-and-seek. “I mean, it only makes sense.” She thought fast. “We live next door to each other.” And Richie realized this was only an act of convenience.

“Shore, shore, senhorritaa.” Richie couldn’t find the courage in himself—only in one of his Voices and y/n smiled, suddenly remembering how often he’d do impressions when they were kids.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” y/n said curtly.

“Tomorrow,” Richie replied cooly when he was anything but. Especially when he paced his own room, the same way he did in Stan’s, when he should’ve been at her door already.

He was only wearing the swim trunks (he had since he was fifteen and hadn’t bothered to replace) that resembled the shirts he wore, and he was debating on if he should put on a shirt or leave as he is. Or leave at all. It was going to be hot today. The weather forecast predicted to be in the nineties. Richie didn’t want to show up indecent, but he also didn’t want to sweat the whole walk there.

Two—that somehow felt like ten—aggravating minutes later, Richie stood at y/n’s door wearing a yellow shirt over his dark blue, tropical swim shorts. His forefinger hovered over the doorbell for a few seconds until he finally bit the bullet and took the bait. You’re gonna do it eventually, just do it now.

It swung open excitedly, revealing his favorite girl who stood behind it. “Come in!” She said and wasted no time to lead him up to her room.

Richie took a moment to catch his breath and take in his new surroundings. Her room seemed unchanged at first and he laughed at the grey, Victorian-style wallpaper that neither y/n nor her parents had taken down yet. But the longer he stood there, the more he noticed how bare it was. The room was stripped of any decorations she once had (except for her bed and desk)—replaced by brown moving boxes. It became apparent to Richie how much time she had spent away from the group. Even though she was here with them now, she had fabricated a life outside of the Losers Club. That fact hurt him, but a sort of curiosity burned inside of him. He wanted to know the new her, but they also had to get to the quarry at a certain time.

“When do we gotta be there by?” Richie asked. He was drawn out of his daydream by his own words and noticed y/n who was turned around in front of him. She was wearing a black, ruffled bikini that complimented her skin beautifully but barely covered the parts that should.

“Two-thirty… but I don’t think they’d mind if we show up early or late.” y/n shrugged as her fingers fumbled with the bikini strings that tied the top. “Can you help me with this?” She turned to him. If Richie picked any time to finally meet her eyes, he picked the worst timing. y/n’s neck craned to the side whilst she still struggled with her top. He knew this wouldn’t end well for him.

“Why’re you asking me?” Richie feigned a chuckle but walked over to her regardless. She angled her body dangerously close to his causing Richie to bite his lip, imprisoning the sharp gasp that threatened to depart from his lips. Cautiously, his hands took the strings from her and tied them into a sloppy bow with a double knot so it wouldn’t come undone anytime soon.

“’Cause you’re here, Tozier.” He made eye contact with her. “What’s been up with you lately?”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“You’ve been distant… really distant.” y/n’s honesty made it hard for Richie to catch a break. “Do you think I haven’t noticed when you pulled away from me yesterday and…”

“And what?” Richie probed. His hands rested on either sides of his hips. He tried to hide any sign of nervousness in his voice, but it was hard to fake what you were.

“It’s stupid.” Obviously, y/n didn’t want to drop the topic of conversation. She didn’t want to coerce the boy into something either.

“Nothing you say, think, or do is stupid, y/n/n.” Richie chuckled once more though this time y/n could tell he wasn’t faking anything.

“You didn’t greet me when I first came home.” She mumbled, hoping he wouldn’t hear her. But he did. “Why was that?”

“I dunno… Bill told me something.” Richie wanted to drop a brick over his head because honestly, how stupid did he sound right now? y/n didn’t have to say anything. The skepticism in her eyes and her bottom lip between her teeth was enough to prompt him further. “He said you have a boyfriend and I just—”

“You just what?” Her words were mysterious. Richie couldn’t seem to read her anymore because the only telling expression she had was a raised eyebrow and cocked head. But that could mean anything.

“I really like you, okay? And how are you supposed to greet someone you’re in love with after not seeing them for three years when you can’t hug them or-or kiss them cos they went off and got a stinkin’ high and mighty boyfriend in New York? New York, for Christ’s sake. It was hard enough to look at you before but now—” Richie’s rambling was quickly cut off when y/n’s arms wrapped around his neck and her lips pressed against his. Her fingers tangled in the loops of his hair and his glasses pushed up against her face. “What was that for?” Richie asked, completely dumbfounded.

“Stop listening to Bill,” y/n instructed. She was amused by the boy in front of her.

“What?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” She brushed a strand of hair from out of his eyes and adjusted his now crooked glasses.

“But Bill said—”

“Bill’s stupid.” Her lips met his again. The kiss was longer this time. y/n’s were soft and tasted like the artificial cherry flavoring from her chapstick she had applied prior; a contradiction to the faint scent of tangerines that clung to her bare skin and the spicy bite of peppermint on her tongue.

His wet tongue traced the inside of her mouth, lingering on the inside of her cheek. y/n bit down on the fullest part of Richie’s bottom lip tentatively, making sure not to hurt him. She could feel his smile lines against her thumb when she removed her left hand from his hair, using it to cup his cheek. y/n pulled from him abruptly, leaving Richie floored and panting.

“You don’t think the crew would care if we showed up late?” Richie asked, his eyebrows wiggling with the new burst of confidence that kiss had given him.

y/n shook her head. A grin bestowed itself upon her swollen lips. Her arms re-enveloped themselves around his figure that towered over her. Richie copied her actions. Except his hands ghosted across the back of her naked torso covered in goosebumps from the spur of the moment. They created an invisible trail to her clothed butt, cueing y/n to jump up.

She did and Richie’s large hands supported her legs that wound around his waist. “Do you wanna…?”

“Yes,” y/n whispered into his ear. At that, a shiver crawled down Richie’s spine.

It became harder for Richie to contain his excitement as he walked the two of them over to y/n’s bed. He was gentle when he set her down on the mattress covered in grey sheets and stuffed pillows. The feeling of the cotton bed sleeves cooled her hot skin although she would need an icepack to completely bring her temperature down.

Richie was on top of her. His lips tickled face that he left quick, unperceivable marks on. When she got the chance, y/n took in his appearance thoughtfully. It was evident that his unruly hair was thrown in all different directions due to y/n’s hands that were knotted in it. There was a blush on his freckled cheeks that resembled a sunburn and he wore a look. It was soft and welcoming like he was an astrologist who had just found out she was responsible for putting the stars in the sky.

But the stars were her eyes as they held the same sparkle from yesterday at the theatre.

“Have you…have you?” Richie’s eyes hesitantly raked down her half nude body from behind his glasses, still held together with adhesive tape. They couldn’t help but slide down the slope of his long nose and y/n pushed them up for him.

“No,” y/n said bashfully. She ducked her head down only for it to be lifted back up with Richie’s thumb and forefinger.

“Do you want this?” He tried not to pose the question awkwardly, but how can you make a question like that not awkward?

“Of course.” y/n’s hand, still playing with the hairs on the back of his head, guided his face towards hers. The two met in a sweet kiss for a sweet second. “As long as it’s with you.” Her tone was confident and assuring, leaving Richie with no extra questions.

“You really know how to flatter a guy, y/n/n.” Richie still marveled at the sight splayed out before him and a melodious sound filled his ears. It was her laugh, but all of his senses seemed to be amplified to the max during this moment.

Both of her hands coasted down to the hem of his stupid, banana-colored shirt that served as a barrier between the two. Her light touches made his breath catch in his throat, released in a throaty gasp, and his once loose shorts now felt strained and uncomfortable. Ignoring the occasional breaths that left Richie’s perfect mouth, y/n’s fingers tugged on the end of his shirt; a signal for him to take the damn thing off.

Instantly, his shirt was off and thrown on her floor. In his head, he thanked that her room wasn’t fully unpacked yet but another part of him thought he and y/n wouldn’t even make it to the quarry. y/n ran two fingers down his smooth chest; the tips of her fingers sent a tingling sensation throughout his being. Richie seized them once they reached his abdomen, his grasp firm but tender. Slowly, he led her fingers with his to the crotch of her bikini. The black material was soaked through. Richie smirked to himself, she’d have to change again before they left for the quarry. Or they could just not go at all.

Her own touch had elicited a moan from y/n. Her head fell back on the grey cushions, exposing her pure neck that begged to be marked. The sighs of pleasure coming from the girl beneath him while he directed her hand that was now slipping into the bottoms of her bikini felt straight from one of his fantasies. He could only hope he wasn’t dreaming, and if he were, he’d just have to remember it for another lonely night in the sheets.

y/n’s fingers danced over her clit. She inhaled sharply at the teasing feeling. Richie’s hand moved to tightly hold her wrist, the contact burned against her already hot skin. His mind was drawing a blank again; lost in the moment. Lost in her. Another moan left her mouth, her breath hit his face, and Richie imagined how she touched herself when she was away at school. Did she think about him the same way he thought about her? Did she wonder what lied behind his pants like how he had on multiple occasions?

For the time being, Richie’s questions would have to be left unanswered. He felt her hand leave her bathing suit and his hand detached itself from her wrist. A blotchy red handprint was left in its place from his harsh grip and before Richie could ask if she was okay, y/n was kicking off the at once restricting clothing. Her lower half was now completely revealed, all for him. Vulnerability, a feeling y/n had only felt on the plane ride alone to New York and on her first date with Trevor, took its rightful place in her chest that lifted and fell at a rapid speed. Her thighs instinctively rubbed together, part out of insecurity, and also to relieve herself, but Richie stopped them before they could make another move.

His right palm had settled on her left thigh, gently separating it from its counterpart while his left palm kept busy as it laid flat on her mattress and held him up. Richie’s index finger toyed with her clit, much like she had done before, and then probed her entrance. Her walls generously coated his first finger with the same nucleus that slicked her now tainted swimsuit. His middle finger entered with the same proficiency and care. Richie’s fingers were long and slender, and they did well to effortlessly curl into the spot that y/n could never seem to find on her own. Richie grunted at the sound of another pretty sound leaving y/n’s pretty lips. But this sound was different.

“Richie,” she moaned breathlessly. Richie, again, came painfully aware of the tent in his shorts. But this time was for y/n, not him.

In and out. In and out. His fingers moved at the relatively same, slow, and predictable pace that didn’t fail to evoke the dirty noises coming from y/n which might suggest otherwise. He continued these movements until her pulse picked up and a coil inside snapped.

Richie Tozier was y/n’s first orgasm.

And second, as he withdrew his hand from her, swapping his fingers for him. He stripped himself of his shorts so that the two now pressed together, even—this excluded the upper half of y/n that was still covered.

Richie hovered over the girl. The girl who moved next door at the ripe age of five, not knowing the impact she’d have on his life. The girl who crafted him and the Losers Club individual friendship bracelets that were tied around his wrist to this day. The girl who moved away too soon. The girl who’d share his first time with him. The girl he loved.

“Can I?” He asked timidly. The thumb and index finger of his right hand pinched at the black strap which prevented her top from falling down—which, ironically, was exactly what Richie wanted. y/n nodded. Her eyes were still shut from the intense euphoria she was still recovering from. First, Richie unclipped the back strap. Then, his hands moved to the thinner strap he’d tied earlier. His knees were holding him up, straddling over y/n’s waist. A wave of frustration overcame him when his fingers clumsily messed with the frocking double-knotted bow. A quiet mutter, “gotcha”, unintentionally rolled off of Richie’s tongue.

y/n giggled at his antics—not to make fun of him, but because he was cute.

The constrictive article of clothing fell from her bodice, uncovering her hardened nipples and flawless breasts.

Richie ducked his head down. Instead of meeting her lips, his mouth wrapped around the still perky bud. Licking, and sucking until breaths turned to whines and whines turned to his name.

Richie. Richie. Richie.

After giving both the same amount of attention, he kissed her. His lips brushed against hers and time felt like it had somehow stopped when y/n felt him enter her.

It was daunting at first. And Richie thumbed away a tear that raced down y/n’s cheek when she had finally taken his whole length.

“Tell me when you want me to move,” Richie murmured—his nose brushing against her cheekbone as he did so.

“Rich…Richie.”

“Yes, gorgeous?” y/n could melt at the nickname, but she didn’t; the rest of her senses too carried away in his intoxicating scent of Spice… Something… and the stimulation of him filling her.

“Can you move?” y/n asked in quiet, broken words.

Richie didn’t say anything. He just slipped out from her only to push back in. The sensation of her tight walls around him was enough to be the reason of his gasps and the resounding echoes of her name that pleasantly escaped his parted lips. His thrusts were steady and gradual—much like his fingers from earlier but… different.

y/n’s back arched into Richie’s front. Both of their pants quickened, and y/n didn’t have to ask to know what this meant.

“Richie,” y/n mewled. Richie’s pace accelerated, pulling them both to their highs. y/n’s eyes rolled back from under her heavy lids. On the other hand, the boy above her had frantically removed himself from her. She would finish on his fingers like once before and he didn’t need any more ushering to find his end.

“y/n.” The moan belonged to Richie this time, and he collapsed onto the newly soiled sheets next to the girl whose name he just spoke. “I love you.” Richie didn’t intend for the words to come out. They just did. He suspected y/n was none the wiser, still trying to catch her breath from when she came.

“What?”

Richie was wrong.

“I love you,” Richie repeated, but he hadn’t intended to say it again either. He was running on autopilot now. His eyes squeezed closed, preparing for y/n to yell at him. Why would you drop the bomb like this? To kick him out.

But she didn’t.

“I love you, too.” She wasn’t facing him, so he had to trust she meant the words. He had to trust she wasn’t actually repulsed at the thought of the guy who’d just stolen her virginity and would never talk to him afterward.

“You…you do?” Richie realized he was laying butt-naked on top of y/n’s sheets and he wouldn’t be shocked if his face were mistaken for a tomato right about now.

“Yeah.” The bed shifted under her turning weight because she was now laying on her side, facing him. Her eyes roamed his milky skin and her fingers apprehensively traced an outline on his arm. Richie didn’t think he would ever get used to her silk skin and feather fingertips. “You’re supposed to lose it to the person you love, right?”

Richie’s heart was already digging its grave. “Yeah.” He swallowed dryly. His hand found hers—the one that was inking an invisible fence on his skin—and weaved his fingers with hers. He didn’t know what else to say but he didn’t have to.

“You still wear this?” y/n was incredulous and judging by the tone of her voice, Richie figured she found the friendship bracelet he still wore. Treasured.

“It’d make me a monster to trash it.” Richie faced her now and y/n laughed whilst her pink lips grazed his knuckles.

“I still have mine.” She raised her eyebrow. Was this a challenge?

“Pish, posh, dahhling. Proof or it’s not real,” he said in his god-awful British-man Voice.

y/n let go of his hand, leaving it for the coldness to slowly eat away. She leapt off her bed and dashed to her desk. She opened one of the side drawers and fished around for a dinky little yarn bracelet that would match his, only she used red and yellow string rather than blue and green.

She skipped over to him, not caring that she was undressed or that they had to be somewhere. A braided bracelet, similar to his, dangled in front of Richie’s tired face and he smiled. Unlike Richie’s, y/n’s bracelet was in perfect condition—just like it had looked from when they were ten.

“I can make you another one,” y/n said, noticing how worn Richie’s was. It was almost falling apart.

“Nah. I like the rugged look.” Richie bared his teeth to her. It must’ve been the fifth time she laughed that day.

“Do you still wanna go?” y/n asked. She didn’t meet his gaze; too focused on slipping the bracelet over her hand. It seemed she had outgrown the thing.

“Go where?” Richie hummed and snaked his arms around her once more.

“The quarry.” His eyes widened and suddenly Richie didn’t feel tired anymore.

“Do we have to?” He whined as if he were still a child.

“I guess not.” y/n gave in; relaxing into his arms. “You can help me unpack.”

“Or…” Richie’s lips pecked her forehead.

“I guess there’s a reason why they call you Trashmouth.” y/n nuzzled into the crook of his neck. His fingers drew lazy shapes on her bare back in attempts to convince her. But y/n didn’t need convincing. Now that she found a home in his arms, she would never leave.

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angelofthequeers · 4 years

Text

Hold Me By Both Hands: Chapter 47

Disclaimer: I don’t own ML.

@smolplantmum tagged as requested :)

Chapter 46 | Chapter 48 | AO3 link

As Ladybug swings through Paris after Adrien’s departure, people stop and point and whisper after her, but she can’t find it in her to give half a damn about what they’re saying. Honestly, being Marinette would be way preferable to being Ladybug right now, because then at least she could go undetected in the crowd and not have to deal with the fallout of Adrien’s revealed identity nearly as much as she does now, because there’s no way that’s not what at least half the people down there are talking about.

God, what is she even going to do if Adrien does lose his Miraculous? Sure, she can work with another partner to get the job done, but…they won’t be Chat Noir. They won’t have that nearly-unspoken bond that she and Chat Noir have built. They won’t have the experience, they weren’t there on that first day when she was at her most inexperienced and her lowest, but she’s being selfish by continuing down this train of thought, she needs to do what’s right for Paris –

“Uh, Ladybug?” Chloé’s tapping her foot with crossed arms in front of Ladybug. Huh. Ladybug’s on the roof of Le Grand Paris. When had she arrived at the hotel? “Are you gonna stand there all day, or should I just go and announce your presence to Hawkmoth?”

“Sorry.” Ladybug shakes her head. “Just…got a lot on my mind.”

Chloé’s face softens. “Whatever. Just c’mon, already. Souris, Ryuuko, and Luka are already here.”

When Chloé had mentioned a superhero suite, Ladybug had been picturing a spacious hotel room; nothing too big, but certainly big enough for a team of six – now seven – superheroes. What she hadn’t been expecting, however, is a massive spread of three rooms to rival Chloé’s imperial suite, and her mouth falls open when Chloé holds the door open for her and she gets her first glimpse.

“I know, right?” Chloé says smugly. “Daddy nearly fell over himself to arrange it when I said that I came with a request from the superheroes themselves. It doesn’t have much yet, but I can get whatever movies we want and a mini fridge and microwave in case we want snacks or need to refuel our kwamis, and there’s only one bed but I plan on getting more –”

“Chloé. Honey,” Ladybug interrupts with a wan smile. “It’s perfect. Thank you for being so considerate.”

“Oh, of course.” Chloé tosses her ponytail. “Anyway, I’m gonna go back up there to wait for the fox and turtle.”

“Thanks, Chloé.”

Once Chloé shuts the suite door behind her, Ladybug turns to head into the right room, assuming the layout is the same as Chloé’s suite. Sure enough, she finds Ryuuko, Luka, and Petite Souris waiting on massive white couches, with platters of food on the table for them to snack on.

“Ma – Ladybug!” Luka’s eyes light up when she enters the room.

“You,” Ladybug growls, “are an idiot and I’m going to kill you.”

Luka’s face falls. “I don’t regret a thing,” he says. “I’d do it ten times over if it meant keeping you all safe.”

“Logically, it was the smart move,” Ryuuko says. “But I agree with Ladybug. I just might end up throttling you for it.”

“I don’t understand anything that’s going on right now, and I’m afraid to ask,” Petite Souris says, looking between each of them while blinking slowly.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Ladybug says. Ryuuko and Luka’s eyes widen.

“Are you sure?” Ryuuko says.

“I’m positive,” Ladybug says. “Hawkmoth knows who Chat Noir is now. We need to be able to fully work together as a team, in and out of the masks.”

Chloé returns at that moment with Rena Rouge and Carapace, who look like they’ve been bashed around the head as they take in the suite. Chloé just snorts and sits next to Petite Souris, whose jaw drops along with Luka’s at the sight of Pollen poking her head out of her cardigan.

“What?” Chloé snaps. “I know I fucked up as Queen Bee, but I’ve been a damn good Honeybee.”

“Hey, no one’s saying you’re not,” Ladybug says. “Calm down, Chloé. I just don’t think they were expecting you to be Honeybee because of how we made sure to throw everyone off the trail.”

“Oh. Right.”

“It doesn’t feel right without Adrien here,” Rena Rouge says after a few seconds of silence. Ladybug sighs and pulls her legs up so that she can hug her knees.

“I know. I hope his father doesn’t grill him too much. But there’s no way we’re replacing him, no matter how angry Mr Agreste gets.”

“Y’know, I never hated anyone except Hawkmoth before,” Carapace says. “But I kinda feel like that about Lila now for all the shit she’s done.”

“Don’t hate her,” Luka says. “That’s energy you could be directing elsewhere.”

“Luka’s right,” Ryuuko says. “Pour that energy into Adrien instead of Lila.”

“Um,” Ladybug says. “So, uh…I guess I should tell you all that I’m not in a four-way love square, but I am dating Adrien. Chat. Both.”

“Say, what?” Rena Rouge squints at Ladybug. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Because I’m tired of keeping secrets.” Ladybug clenches her fists. “Hawkmoth already knows who Chat Noir is, and part of the Miraculous magic means that akumas can’t read our minds or make us say who we are. The only thing they can do is take our Miraculouses themselves or brainwash us into physically coming to them as a Miraculous holder.”

“We’re revealing our identities?” Chloé says. “I mean, your identities, since everyone already knows who I am. Thanks, Shellhead.”

“Hey, that’s my nickname for him,” Rena Rouge complains. Chloé flips her off in response.

“Ryuuko and Luka already know who both of us are,” Ladybug says. “And Chat and I know every one of you. So, back to why I just mentioned the whole relationship mess.” Ladybug takes a deep breath and laces her fingers. This is it. No going back. But she’d trust every single teammate with her life – even Petite Souris, after today – and if knowing each other will strengthen their bonds? “We need to be able to fully trust each other, in and out of the mask. We’re a team. We’ve got the group chat to coordinate, but some of us know an identity or two, so our dynamic is rather…imbalanced if you ask me. And since Hawkmoth knows who Chat is, he could target Chat to find out our identities. It can’t possibly be any more dangerous for all of us to know each other if the pay-off is a stronger bond between all of us. Unlike Hawkmoth and his akumas, we can rely on each other.”

“Dude, if you’re trying to convince us, I don’t think you need to,” Carapace says. Ladybug’s lips twitch.

“I just want a promise from all of you,” she says. “Today, I was nearly distracted to the point of uselessness because someone I care about – Luka – was hurt by Sanguisuga. And ever since Chat and I found out each other’s identities, it’s become so much harder to watch him take hits for me. I want you all to promise that you’ll see each other as teammates first and friends second. Don’t just ignore your teammates and not care, obviously, but don’t let yourselves get distracted and take unnecessary hits. One of the reasons to keep our identities secret is so that if, say, two of us were best friends or dating, we wouldn’t let our emotions get the better of us in the middle of a fight.”

“Of course,” Ryuuko says. “And besides, your cure fixes everything.”

Ladybug lets out a shaky laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But even if I’m not around to fix things –”

“Ridiculous,” Chloé scoffs. “Ladybug always wins. You just have to accept that if it comes down to it, we have to take the hits for you so you can fix everything. It’s not us being ridiculously noble or whatever. It’s literally just common sense.”

“Apart from Adrien,” Rena Rouge snorts. “God, now I get why he was crushing so hard on Ladybug. But hey, I haven’t been ridiculously noble, have I?”

“No,” Ladybug says. “You’ve done a good job of prioritising the mission since Faux News.”

“I promise,” Petite Souris says. Rena Rouge and Carapace chime in their agreement, so Ladybug cracks a weak smile while still fiddling with her fingers.

“So, uh, who wants to go first?” she says.

“Ooh, me!” Rena Rouge bounces on the spot with gleaming eyes. “If I have to keep it a secret any longer, I’m gonna explode. Let’s rest.” In a flash of orange light, Alya’s sitting in her spot with Trixx drifting down to sit on her shoulder. The way Carapace’s eyes pretty much bulge out of his head behind his goggles is so comical that Ladybug almost ends up in hysterical giggles. Almost. If she didn’t have to be professional about this…

“I – uh – guh –” Carapace splutters.

“Eww!” Chloé leans away from Alya. “I’ve been bonding with Césaire?”

“You think it wasn’t a slap in the face knowing you were Honeybee?” Alya says with a raised eyebrow. “Especially since I had to help you by throwing everyone off after Malediktator?”

“Blueberries!” Trixx zooms at the plate of fruit and dives into the berries. Chloé wrinkles her nose when he shovels one into his mouth.

“At least my kwami is dignified,” Chloé says. Pollen laughs and slips out of Chloé’s jacket to hover in mid-air.

“Indeed, my queen,” she says.

“Shell off,” Carapace manages to force out. An ashen-faced Alya chokes and nearly falls off the couch when Nino appears next to her in Carapace’s place.

“Nino?” she shrieks. “My superhero rival – my boyfriend?”

“I hated your guts!” Nino jabs a finger at her. “I thought you were flirting with me!”

“I wasn’t! I thought you were a dick! We hated each other because we loved each other?”

“Wait, you love me?” Nino’s eyes fill with stars. Alya groans and facepalms.

“Yes, you idiot! I even started to like Carapace, like some sort of superhero cliché, but noooo, I had to be loyal to my boyfriend because I’m not polyamorous! And it turns out that he was my love-hate rival!”

“DJ Tupac? Of course!” Chloé throws her hands up in the air. “And let me guess, dragon girl’s secretly Marinette or something?”

Ryuuko snorts. “Wrong red superhero with black hair. Open skies.”

The first person who seems to put all the puzzle pieces together upon seeing Kagami is Alya. Her eyes nearly pop out of her head, and she opens and closes her mouth like a goldfish, and then she shakily points from Ladybug to Kagami and then Luka.

“You – all of you – dating – and all of us – ohmygodmybestieisLadybugI’mgonnafuckingdie –”

“Please don’t,” Ladybug laughs, while Nino, Chloé, and Petite Souris splutter and have their own freak-outs at the realisation of her identity. “I’d hate to have to replace you. Spots off.”

“Finally!” Kagami bounds over to Marinette’s couch so that she can wrap her arms around Marinette’s waist and rest her head in Marinette’s lap, while Longg floats up to join his fellow kwamis. Luka’s only seconds behind, dropping down next to Marinette and drawing her into a side embrace.

“Hello!” Tikki settles on Marinette’s head and waves. “I’m Tikki, Ladybug’s kwami! Pleased to finally meet you all!”

“That’s the toy I gave Prince Ali! I looked up to Marinette Dupain-Cheng?” Chloé shrieks. “All that bullying and then sucking up – oh my god, this is ridiculous, utterly ridiculous –”

“Look at it this way, Chloé,” Marinette says. “How else did I know how your progress was going? Why else would I have picked you for the Bee?”

“I – I mean, sure, if you look at it that way –”

“Get calm!” Petite Souris blurts out and turns into Mylène in a flash of pale pink light.

“Mylène?” Alya exclaims. “Wait, since when are you a superhero, girl?”

“Since today.” Mylène holds her head high despite how her whole body is trembling. On her knee, the little rat kwami – Mullo, Marinette believes his name is – shoots her an approving look. “I understand if I wasn’t your first choice, Ladybug. Chat Noir said that I was the first one he could find –”

“That doesn’t make you a bad choice,” Marinette says firmly. “You did very well today. You saved me and Kagami, and you tried to take on Sanguisuga even though you were scared. You were super brave. Maybe Petite Souris can help you be brave as Mylène too.”

“Ugh, no wonder you were all “triumph of evil is good people doing nothing” and whatever,” Chloé says.

“Actually, that was thanks to me,” Alya says. “Ladybug’s best friend. Who I said I’d do on my freebie list. Oh my god.”

“Guys, the reveal was to make us stronger, not make us argue over little stuff,” Marinette says before Alya can start freaking out at the realisation that her celebrity crush is her best friend.

“We’ve been reactive for way too long,” Kagami says. “Hawkmoth now knows Chat Noir’s identity. We need to proactively try and find him before he can cause more harm.”

“Honestly, part of the reason why we’ve been so reactive is that Tikki didn’t think we were ready,” Marinette admits. “Who knows how long he’s been a Butterfly wielder? But with this team, I know we can take a more proactive stance.”

“We should start coming up with some ideas now, then,” Luka says. “You can fill Adrien in through the group chat tonight.”

“Good idea!” Mylène rummages around in her bag for a notebook and pen. “We can write our ideas down in here. I’m always prepared for when Ivan thinks of song lyrics and doesn’t have anything to write them down with!”

“So.” Marinette cards her fingers through Kagami’s hair; such a normal action as opposed to the conversation they’re about to have. “Any ideas?”

But before anyone can toss a suggestion into the air, a tiny black thing comes barrelling through the open window of the superhero suite and skids to a halt above the table of food.

Wait. It’s not a thing. It’s…Plagg? With the ring around him?

“Plagg?” Marinette gasps. “What are you doing here? Where’s Adrien?”

“I’m sorry!” Plagg says with wild green eyes. “I’m sorry, Marinette, I tried to stop it, but I –”

“Plagg, slow down!” Tikki zooms up to Plagg and grabs his tiny paws, and she’s joined by Trixx, Wayzz, Pollen, Longg, and Mullo. “Was Adrien compromised? Tell us what happened.”

Plagg nods shakily. “So, Pigtails, remember when you and Adrien thought his dad could be Hawkmoth?”

Marinette claps a hand to her mouth to keep down the bile that threatens to rise into her throat. “Mr Agreste is Hawkmoth?” she whispers. “But – Adrien’s there! With him! And I just let him go! Plagg, what happened to Adrien?”

“His mother’s alive,” Plagg rasps. “Creepy dude’s been keeping her in some life support thing in the basement. That’s why he wants the Miraculouses: he wants to wish her back.”

“Wait, what?” Mylène says, while Chloé pales to the colour of chalk.

“A-Auntie Emilie?” she whispers.

“Combining the Ladybug and Black Cat Miraculouses lets you make one wish,” Tikki says. “But doesn’t he know that he has to pay a price of equal value? What if he has to sacrifice Adrien?”

“Doesn’t even matter right now.” Plagg covers his face with his hands and groans. “I shouldn’t have left! I shouldn’t have ditched my kitten like that! Now he’s Phantom and –”

“Wait. Phantom?” Luka leans forward so suddenly that Marinette nearly topples sideways. One look at his face is enough to make Marinette shiver, because Luka Couffaine isn’t a boy who gets angry easily, but his expression right now is terrifying enough to make her want to hand over her earrings just to erase it from existence. “Adrien was akumatised?”

Chloé lets out a loud gasp, while everyone else looks to be turning various shades of green. “Adrikins! How could his father do that to him?”

“He tried to resist,” Plagg says miserably. “My poor kitten tried so hard. But between finding out his dad’s Hawkmoth and his mum’s alive…he managed to resist enough to not tell Hawkie who you guys are, though.”

“So…is Phantom going to come after us, even if he didn’t reveal who we are?” Kagami says, pushing herself up so that she can reach over and grab Marinette and Luka’s hands. “He knows our identities.”

“Not yet.” Plagg shakes his head viciously. “As far as he knows, you guys aren’t meeting till tonight. But…he’s gonna take Hawkmoth to get other Miraculouses.”

Marinette shrieks and tries to jump to her feet so quickly that her arms are forced to windmill so that she doesn’t fall flat on her face. “Master Fu! He knows where to find Master Fu!”

“Master who?” Chloé says.

“Master Fu!” Wayzz’s yellow eyes are wide with horror. “The Guardian of the Miraculouses! My previous holder!”

“Guys!” Marinette takes a deep breath and starts mildly flapping her hands to give her a physical anchor to focus on. “Okay. Make sure you stick together. We don’t know how strong Phantom is or what his powers are, especially if Hawkmoth is with him. I have to get to Master Fu before Phantom does.”

“Possession and bending others to his will,” Plagg says quietly. “He’s literally a ghost. A shade of himself.”

Marinette winces. “Great. God, I hope Adrien doesn’t remember any of this when we save him…”

“Bits and pieces.” Chloé’s shoulders slump. “They’re not really concrete memories. They’re like little flashes that come when there’s a reminder.”

“We’ll come with you,” Kagami says, then holds up a hand before Marinette can protest. “You shouldn’t go alone in case Phantom and Hawkmoth are there. We can help take down Hawkmoth, and I can at least buy us some time to get away if we need to retreat.”

“So can I, with Mirage,” Alya chimes in.

“Kagami’s right,” Tikki says. “Master Fu would much rather you bring back-up, even if it means other people knowing where he is. And if Hawkmoth finds him, it won’t really matter much, will it?”

“You’re right,” Marinette sighs. “Okay. Plagg, where’s the akuma, do you know?”

“The charm you gave him back during the game tournament.” Plagg’s ears droop. “It’s around his wrist. That’s all I saw before I got the heck outta there.”

“Everyone get that?” Marinette says, and her teammates nod. “Don’t take unnecessary risks. We’ve got each other’s backs, but don’t lose focus, or Hawkmoth could get away with Adrien and the Miracle Box. Speaking of…Luka, if you’re willing, could you –?”

Plagg’s already swooping down to Luka before Marinette can finish speaking. Luka nods and holds out his hand so that Plagg can rest on his palm and deposit the ring.

“Of course, Marinette,” he says, slipping the ring onto his finger.

“Right. Let’s do this!” Marinette says. “Tikki, spots on!”

“Plagg, claws out!”

“Trixx, let’s pounce!”

“Pollen, buzz on!”

“Wayzz, shell on!”

“Longg, bring the storm!”

“Mullo, get squeaky!”

In a burst of rainbow light, seven superheroes take the place of seven teenagers. Luka’s Black Cat outfit is him to a tee: just a green-lined black leather jacket with a green paw print on the back of the jacket and his black fingerless gloves, over a high-collared black top, torn black pants with bright green visible beneath the rips, black combat boots, a studded black belt that falls into a tail behind him, green cat eyes behind a plain black mask, and green-lined black cat ears sticking out of his hair, which is now tipped in bright green. He reaches back to unclip his baton from the small of his back and nods, his mouth set in a stormy line.

“Just call me Noir,” he says. “Doesn’t feel right to come up with a name and everything when I’m not the real Black Cat. And Hawkmoth will probably guess who I am anyway.”

With a terrifying light in her eyes, Honeybee cracks her knuckles and growls, “That son of a bitch is gonna pay for what he’s done to my Adrikins.”

“Sorry, Honeybee, but you’ll have to get in line,” Ryuuko says, unsheathing her sword. The zing that results is sharp and deadly, honing Ladybug’s focus to the mission before her because with no Chat Noir, it’s up to her to step up and be the sole leader. As amazing as Noir is, he’s not Chat Noir.

“Everyone ready?” she says. Her teammates nod, so she takes a deep breath. “Then let’s go and kick butterfly butt.”

#miraculous ladybug #ml fic #aotq fic #aotq: hold me #marinette dupain-cheng #kagami tsurugi #ryuuko #luka couffaine #cat!luka #alya cesaire #rena rouge #nino lahiffe #carapace #chloe bourgeois #mylene haprele #akumatized adrien #identity reveal #final battle next boooyyyyssss

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junker-town · 7 years

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NFL Dad, Week 11: At least you didn’t start Nathan Peterman

One dad, two young kids, and six-plus hours of RedZone Channel. How much football can he actually watch?

What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done? I genuinely want to know.

For me, it was probably my wife and I deciding to have a second kid without so much as a glance at our budget (“budget,” he said, like an adult who had such a thing at the time). We wanted two kids, and we knew we’d make it work, gosh darn it. Because of that, our bank account is held together with duct tape and wishes, we’ll never own a home, and the looming specter of college tuition is the only thing that makes me look forward to the collapse of society.

On the other hand, that decision gave us a very sweet son who plays well with his big sister. We made a poor financial decision that led to fuller, more joyous lives. It wasn’t national news. It didn’t affect any outcomes for a billion-dollar franchise that employs hundreds of people. It wasn’t televised for everyone to mock.

What I’m saying is, at least I didn’t bench Tyrod Taylor to start Nathan Peterman, like some kind of ignorant asshole. And neither did you! So chin up, things could be a lot worse.

EARLY GAMES, FIRST HALF

— After helping get the kids ready for their naps, I turn on the TV around 1:15. The first meaningful play is Jay Cutler throwing an interception in the end zone. Hell yes, today is gonna be awesome.

— DeShone Kizer’s early line: 0-1, 1 INT. It looks MISERABLE in Cleveland: Windy, wet, and the Browns are playing.

A few minutes later, the Jaguars score a TD on play-action that fools the camera operator. Blake Bortles wasn’t even on the screen until just before he tossed the ball to Marcedes Lewis.

— Eli Manning completes five passes in a row to start the game. Naturally, once the Giants reach the red zone, it’s time for someone else to throw a pass! How does it go for Shane Vereen?

The Giants attempt a little trickery... But the @chiefs have other plans. PICKED. #KCvsNYG http://pic.twitter.com/0imA0M3DJ9

— NFL (@NFL) November 19, 2017

SUBOPTIMAL. Also, this is the first time this column has begun with three consecutive bullets about interceptions.

— My daughter goes down for her nap. Whenever we put her to bed, she does a singsong cadence of the names in her life (NOT like Arya Stark, I swear). She says, “Mommy, Daddy,” then rattles off her own name twice, her brother, the dog, her nanny (twice), and then back through the list again, but randomized.

I cannot do it justice in words because it is woven into the landscape of my day, a charming and inexplicable habit from the spongy mind of a child. Eventually, I know, she will stop doing it, and I’m already sad about the day I walk out of her darkened room without hearing the rhythmic, lyrical recitation of the names of people I love.

— The Jags run a surprise onside kick, and it works! Josh Lambo recovers!

That was cool, but ... C’mon guys, it’s the Browns. Y’all don’t need to do that. Let them die with dignity.

— We ran out of coffee in my house this weekend. I used the last of our grounds on Saturday morning, but thought we had another bag — not realizing that the bag was decaf. (Charlton Heston voice) DECAAAAAAAAAFFFF!!!

So we made do with decaf when we woke up, then I had a latte when we took the kids to the playground in the morning. I drank it like a desperate man. It helped, but by noon I was stressed and irritable, so I heated up water to make tea.

I try to be the kind of person who respects everyone’s tastes, but apparently that’s only possible when I have enough caffeine in my system. Tea is bullshit.

— Alex Smith throws an interception on a shovel pass. Not easy to do!

AN INT ON A SHOVEL PASS MAKES A TASTY SNACK FOR DAMON HARRISON #Giants #Chiefs http://pic.twitter.com/0RZs3zcyxt

— Clay Wendler (@ClayWendler) November 19, 2017

— Facing 4th and six in the vicinity of the Saints’ 40, Kirk Cousins makes an awesome throw downfield to convert, leading to a short rushing touchdown that gives Washington a 17-10 lead.

After Rams-Vikings, Washington versus New Orleans seems to be the game to watch in this early slate. Cousins & Co. are playing for their season, and the Saints offense seems a little rattled by the pressure that Ryan Kerrigan and his friends are bringing.

— I just deleted a bullet point about Jay Cutler throwing his second interception, because he has now thrown THREE. I swear the only RedZone highlights from this Bucs-Dolphins game are Cutler picks, which is all I really want anyway.

— The Packers have turned the ball over three times and the Ravens only lead 3-0. Brett Hundley has no business facing this Ravens defense, but it’s Baltimore that infuriates me. That offense is polio. Joe Flacco is the debtor’s prison’s Alex Smith.

Also, the Packers are wearing their crappy throwbacks. If I’d known they’d spend today drawing inspiration from the 1930s, I wouldn’t have picked them to cover.

— Rams-Vikings is living up to the hype of a battle between two division leaders in the superior conference. It’s tied at 7-7, and though there hasn’t been much fodder for this column, every set of downs is a chess match between quality teams with smart plans that make the most of their players.

As soon as I write that, Cooper Kupp caps a Rams drive by fumbling on the 1-yard line.

Cooper Kupp loses the on the 1-yard line... And the @Vikings recover! Going the other way! #SKOL http://pic.twitter.com/3glfdkGBOn

— NFL (@NFL) November 19, 2017

Even this — a red zone turnover — is more indicative of a relentless, well-coached defense than it is of Kupp’s carelessness. And now that’s I’ve had two instances of Kupp alliteration, I must see the headline through to completion:

Cooper Kupp’s carelessness crushes quality campaign; Case Keenum & company control close contest!

I would have been an incredible newsman in the 1920s.

— The Lions, who stumbled out of the gate against the Bears, take a 21-17 lead on a short pass to Ameer Abdullah with 20 seconds left in the half. John Fox has that, “Aw, hell” look on his face. It’s the sort of look that Bears fans must HATE, because it gives the impression that Fox is in over his head.

Another thing that gives the impression that Fox is in over his head? His coaching! ZING! Take that, old man who never did anything to me!

EARLY GAMES, SECOND HALF

— Joe Flacco throws to a blanketed Mike Wallace, who makes an incredible catch to give the Ravens the first touchdown of the game. They lead 13-0.

The announcers rave about Wallace’s catch — justifiably — but let’s talk about Flacco’s reasoning. It’s not like Wallace is the kind of receiver you should expect to make catches while covered, like Julio Jones or DeAndre Hopkins. He’s Mike Wallace! A deep threat on an offense that doesn’t throw deep! And the Ravens can’t even realistically cut Flacco until after 2018! We have SO MUCH more Flacco to watch. GUH. Dump this team into the Chesapeake.

— My son wakes up from his nap early. He points to his mouth and says, “Ow. Ow.” His mouth hurts because he fell off his sister’s bed earlier, hitting his chin on the bottom rail and biting his tongue. Poor kid. He sits next to me on the couch and sucks his thumb while resting his head against my shoulder.

— “Alex Smith is hot dog shit today.” That was originally going to be my entire bullet, but that metaphor isn’t very clear. What I mean is that Smith is fresh dog shit on scorching pavement on hottest day of the summer. But the phrase could also read as shit from a dog that’s hot, or possibly the filling of a hot dog from a questionable manufacturer. None of these are particularly good, but I wanted to make it clear what kind of hot dog shit Alex Smith is today.

— Matt Moore has replaced Jay Cutler -- not for cause, though. Cutler, who had put together some 11 or 12 minutes without an interception, left the game with a concussion. Moore immediately hits Jarvis Landry for a long gain.

— My wife leaves with my son to walk our dog just as my daughter wakes up from her nap. The Vikings are putting together an intriguing drive, but I go into her room and help her use the potty. When we come back out to the TV room, the Vikings are celebrating a touchdown.

We sit on the couch and I read a Dr. Seuss book to her. Are you ready for a children’s book hot take? I hope so, because Seuss is WILDLY overrated. He’s kind of like Joe Namath: A champion and Hall of Famer, sure, but also revered beyond his talent.

The strength of Seuss books is their musical language, and I fully welcome the way they can give children a sense of poetic rhythm and rhyme. They’re also EXCRUCIATINGLY long; I could read a chapter of Moby-Dick in the time it takes to read Oh, The Places You’ll Go. The rhymes are also repetitive enough to feel rote, but differentiated enough that you can’t zone out and perform on autopilot; it’s the children’s book version of assembling IKEA furniture. Finally, though I can’t deny Seuss’ unique artistic style, I loathe it with all my heart. Is that a dog or a cat? A cat or a person? A person or some made-up bullshit so he can make a rhyme? I’m over it, man.

— After the book, my daughter takes my wrist in her hand and puts my arm around her. We watch Adam Thielen break a long TD to give the Vikings a two-score lead, and that’s probably curtains for the Rams.

All this man does is make PLAYS. 65-yard @athielen19 TOUCHDOWN! #SKOL http://pic.twitter.com/cQyfvs5sR5

— NFL (@NFL) November 19, 2017

— Another Alex Smith interception leads to a Giants field goal; the underdogs lead 9-6 with 1:39 left. This reminds me: I missed it while parenting, but Travis Kelce ALSO threw an interception today.

In just this one NFL game, interceptions have been thrown by a quarterback, a running back, and a tight end. If you had bet me before the game that THREE players would throw interceptions and NONE of them would be Eli Manning, you would own every penny to my name.

— Alex Smith TRIES to throw another pick, but there’s a penalty on the defense. Soon after, he finds Travis Kelce wide open down the seam. The Chiefs get into the red zone but can only get a field goal. These assholes are going to overtime.

— A Lions 52-yard field goal gives them 27-24 lead, but John Fox has three timeouts, one minute remaining, and a rookie quarterback. LET’S GO!

Mitchell Trubisky puts together a competent hurry-up drill, but Connor Barth misses WAY wide right on a 46-yarder. The Bears lose, 27-24. It’s the third straight game (and fifth overall) that they’ve lost by one score. Meanwhile, two of their three wins have come in overtime. This must be an AGONIZING season for Bears fans.

— My wife gives our daughter a Moana coloring book that comes with a paintbrush and watercolors. The first picture inside features Moana standing proudly with her fists on her hips. Later in the evening, my daughter will swagger up and down the hallway with her fists on her hips, saying, “I’m walking like Moana!”

THIS is why I love Moana but have beef with the traditional Disney princesses. My daughter is three years old and has still never seen Moana (or any movie), but frequent exposure to the soundtrack and a couple of plot points — “Moana has to save her people” — gives my daughter enough information to guide her body language, and we can see it in the way she play-acts.

When she’s Cinderella, I have to pretend to put a gown on her, and we dance together at the ball. When she’s Rapunzel, she flips her hair around; Ariel, and she holds up a scarf as a bikini. But when she’s Moana, she throws her shoulders back, struts with purpose, and thrusts her fist into the air — something she’d only previously done when saying, “I’m Batman!”

Long story short, her Cinderella doll has a date with the trash chute.

— The Saints, trailing by 15 as the game winds to a close, needed two touchdowns in three minutes. Drew Brees did it in two minutes, thanks to a three-and-out forced by the defense. 2-point conversion good.

WE. DID. THAT.@a_kamara6 with the touchdown and the two-point conversion to tie things up with 1:05 to play! #SaintsGameday | #WASvsNO http://pic.twitter.com/Dzae3lVa40

— New Orleans Saints (@Saints) November 19, 2017

This gives me flashbacks to Washington’s win in Seattle a few weeks back, when the Seahawks scored too quickly and gave the visitors enough time to retake the lead.

— With time starting to run low in overtime, the Giants go for it on 4th and six at the edge of field goal range, and Manning takes a shot deep. awesome deep pass. Great play. FG Giants, 12-9.

Wowwwwwwww. Roger Lewis makes the INCREDIBLE grab to setup the @giants WIN. #GiantsPride http://pic.twitter.com/YE9qsqlql5

— NFL (@NFL) November 19, 2017

It’s underthrown, but the cornerback drags Roger Lewis (a player I have DEFINITELY heard of, yessir) down, and that helps him make the spectacular catch. The Giants kick a chip shot to win the game.

The Chiefs’ performance today puts some serious stink on the “Andy Reid after a bye week” mystique. Woof. On the flip side, the Giants hurt their draft position and will keep Ben McAdoo as coach a little longer, so ... way to go, everybody. Bang-up job this week.

— Washington does nothing with its first OT possession, and the Saints waste no time: Mark Ingram breaks a long run to put them in field goal range. Wil Lutz kicks the 28-yarder, and this is the rare instance I approve of overtime: It (A) ended quickly and (B) completed the gut-wrenching collapse of a team I dislike.

LATE GAMES, FIRST HALF

— Nathan Peterman starts his NFL career off with a pick-6. Sure, it went off the receiver’s hands, but that’s inconvenient for my narrative. I picked up the Chargers defense for my fantasy team, and I’m counting on Joey Bosa and Melvin Ingram to ruin the debut of an unheralded rookie quarterback.

— The first RedZone action in Denver is the Broncos blocking a Bengals punt. It should be illegal to have this much orange on the field.

— My wife gives the kids apple slices with maple almond butter, which is one of very few ways to make almond butter palatable to kids raised on peanut butter. They sit at the table and eat silently. I mute the TV and just drink in the quiet. For entire seconds: no sirens or honking outside, no incessant questions or shouting or whining, no dog nails clacking on the wood floors, just silence. I store the moment away and save it for a moment when I need a warm feeling of calm.

— Brock Osweiler throws a pick in end zone that Dre Kirkpatrick ALMOST returns for six, but he inexplicably fumbles without being touched, recovering his mistake at the one-yard line. This might be my favorite play of the entire year:

PICK-6-OHHH NO! Dre Kirkpatrick nearly has a 101-yard PICK-6... But fumbles inside the 5. Wow. #CINvsDEN http://pic.twitter.com/zUyPI5Q0xZ

— NFL (@NFL) November 19, 2017

By the way, this is the exact sort of thing I’d do if I were an NFL player who had Joe Mixon on my fantasy team (I don’t, though, because I drafted with MORAL PRINCIPLES). It’s Tyler Kroft, however, who gets the touchdown.

— My daughter, still working with watercolors, absentmindedly takes a sip from the cup of water she was dipping her paint brush in. Bruce Arians approves!

My wife says, “How did that taste?” My daughter only frowns in response.

— Tom Brady opens the scoring in Mexico City with a TD to one of his running backs … Kevin Faulk? No, Dion Lewis. Hey, speaking of Mexico, the new Pixar joint looks amazing.

youtube

Oh yeah, that’s gonna give me a good cry.

— Nathan Peterman has now thrown his THIRD interception. It’s still the first quarter.

Tyrod Taylor has the lowest interception rate in NFL history (at least 1000 attempts).

— Mina Kimes (@minakimes) November 19, 2017

Tyrod Taylor in 2017: 254 passing attempts, 3 interceptions Nathan Peterman, today: 8 passing attempts, 3 interceptions

— Rodger Sherman (@rodger_sherman) November 19, 2017

— Keenan Allen is in for a TD, and it’s 17-7, Chargers. Allen doesn’t look quick, but he’s just so smooth. I can’t think of another receiver that big who moves with such grace and without any wasted movement. I hope he can avoid the injury problems that have followed him to this point.

— Peterman throws a FOURTH pick! This is amazing. I stop watching the games to follow Twitter, where the ‘Rod Squad is gleefully destroying Sean McDermott and the Bills management.

more like Tea-rod Taylor, right @minakimes? http://pic.twitter.com/zUbrqH6ziC

— Matt Ufford (@mattufford) November 19, 2017

You’ll notice in the above picture that Taylor has “Born to Lose” tattooed on his bicep; on his other one is “Built to Win.” When he leaves Buffalo — and he should, for an organization that actually welcomes him as a perfectly solid quarterback (‘sup Jacksonville?) — he should find some space for “Benched Too Soon.”

— A Peterman fumbled snap leads to 3rd and seven, and let me tell you: I have rarely been so tense as watching Nathan Peterman, sitting on four interceptions, wait to take a snap on a passing down. (He threw incomplete. It was not particularly close to being complete.)

— Did Nathan Michael Peterman throw a fifth interception? You are extremely goddamn right he did.

— As the games go into halftime, the Chargers lead the Bills 37-7, the Pats take a 17-0 lead on a 62-yarder from Stephen Gostkowski, and the Bengals lead in Denver, 13-7. The lone close game is the one I have no interest in watching. Orange teams are crap.

LATE GAMES, SECOND HALF

— My kids practice saying “Touchdown!” while throwing their arms up in the air. the 3-year-old has it down cold, but my son’s pronunciation isn’t quite there. It starts out as “DA-DA!” but he manages to get to “TOUSH-DAWN!” by the thirtieth or fortieth try. It definitely did not get old, I’ll tell you that much.

— Brandin Cooks ends any realistic hope for the Raiders with a 64-yard touchdown that is all speed and no safety help. I won’t even link to a highlight because it’s not even that interesting. Imagine a really fast guy running past a person, then catching a ball in stride and continuing to run. There you go.

— Tyrod Taylor is back! He converts a 3rd and 12 and leads the offense to a field goal. Whoa, CRAZY how the Bills’ offense works better when the more talented quarterback plays. Sean McDermott is either the stupidest asshole in the league, or he’s being told by management to back Peterman and too spineless to say no.

— I get my son out of the bath, put him in a diaper and pajamas, give him his milk, and somehow manage to cut his fingernails without turning our house into the Octagon. The kid can’t catch a ball, but brandish some nail clippers and he’s suddenly a black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Usually, if I want to keep him from scratching his face with his talons while he sleeps, I have to put him in an arm bar while he screams bloody murder.

But not this time! He just drinks his milk and doesn’t struggle. Now, if you don’t have kids, you probably never think about this kind of thing. But as a parent, please allow me to shout, THIS IS SUCH AN EASY THING THAT CHILDREN MAKE SO GODDAMN HARD ARRRRGGGHHH.

— Down 27-0, the Raiders go for it on 4th and one, and hand it off to ... a running back who is NOT Marshawn Lynch. He gets stuffed. JESUS. What black magic does Belichick have that makes opposing coaches ignore Lynch at crucial moments?

— The Raiders score a touchdown I don’t see because this is happening:

The great thing about writing is that you can easily work from home

I saved my daughter’s notes:

bv bvb vt /ER;/.SZrd6s4\-}){“:$D[‘c tgc raLKUoYPTOIUYTR’=\][

OK, so we’ve got some room to improve. She does better work with emojis.

— My son picks a book off the table, drops it on the floor, and bends down to pick it up, not accounting for the table that’s in his head’s path. BONK. He’s got a red welt on his forehead, and it’s at least the fourth time this afternoon he’s fallen or otherwise hurt himself (he also pulled open a tape measure, which retracted and whipped him in the face). He’s a disaster.

On the screen, the clock ticks down on the Chargers’ 54-24 blowout. Sean McDermott looks grim but steadfast. In the other room, my daughter channels The Rock’s voice to yell the final lines of his song in Moana: “AND THANK YOU!”

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