#incidentally my dad actually made his own wine a few times when i was a kid

[arctic-hands]

I should totally learn how to brew my own mead or cider

#not with elderberries tho i wouldn't trust myself not screw something up and accidentally poison myself #alcohol #incidentally my dad actually made his own wine a few times when i was a kid #my family is pretty straightlaced so i never got to try any #THAT SAID i did have a tiny disgusting sip of too strong homebrew mead at a pagan ceremony when i was 8 #went my entire life thinking i hated mead until i tried Baltimore's own #Charm City meadworks #and discovered i liked the variety pack i got last year #got elderberry mead for my birthday a few weeks ago and liked it even tho i normally prefer sweet over tart #anyway today sucked ass and i had ONE can of mead #but i forgot I'm currently on cyclobenzaprine so i am stupidly drunk for one can #anyway i should learn to homebrew where's that tumblr post about making twelve dollar mead #i mean I'm sure the cost of ingredients has gone up because of covid inflation/corporate greed but still

[ghost-in-the-hella]

Since you wrote this beautiful Valentine's story a while ago, are you gonna do the same thing for Easter maybe? :) Greetings, Doe

Thank you! If you only knew how many unfinished holiday amberprice and/or pricefield fanfics I have sitting in my google drive... I’ve been sitting on an amberprice Thanksgiving fic and a Halloween fic for something like two years now, plus I’ve got bits and pieces of other Halloween ones, a couple of Valentine’s ones for both amberprice and pricefield, a post-Bae ending pricefield multi-holiday fic, and on and on and on...

But here’s an Easter amberprice (I’m assuming that’s what you’re asking for) I just cranked out in, like, an hour or so. I haven’t so much as reread it and I normally agonize over my holiday fics for days if not weeks (or even years) so it’s very probably riddled with typos, repetitive phrases, and other nuisances. I hope you enjoy it nevertheless. (Oh, incidentally, it’s supposed to be a phone conversation between Rachel and Chloe, which I don’t think I made at all clear in the fic itself)

---

“I thought you were the one who’s all into holidays and stuff. I mean, you dragged me out to that Blackhellaween party, you made me celebrate Valentine’s Day for the first time since I was a kid, you--”

“I like Valentine’s Day because it’s romantic, and Halloween is all about costumes and drama. Easter is just… boring.”

“A giant rabbit travels all over the world breaking into people’s houses and crapping out eggs and candy, and that’s boring to you?”

“...Chloe. You’re seventeen years old. Are you seriously telling me that you still believe in the Easter Bunny??”

“Uh, no, but I seriously believe in candy! And breaking into people’s houses.”

“Well, that would definitely make Easter more exciting around here…”

“I gather your folks aren’t the ‘dressing up as the Easter Bunny to surprise the kid with candy’ types.”

“Um, what? Is that a thing??”

“It was a thing when my dad was alive.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god, you’re not serious.”

“Hella fucking serious, cross my heart and hope to die. Every year we’d stay up past midnight watching Saturday Night Live together, right?”

“Uh-huh…”

“So every year a little before midnight, my dad would start yawning and stretching, and then he’d claim he’s too tired to watch the rest and he’d go off to bed. Then, like, fifteen minutes later there’d be a knocking at the door.”

“Oh my god. You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not creative enough to make something like this up.”

“Untrue, but go on.”

“Okay, so my mom would act all mystified about who could possibly be knocking on our door so late - she’s a shit actor, by the way - and would ask me to get the door. Y’know, like any responsible parent would ask their young daughter to do after midnight when a strange knocking sounds on the door.”

“You were how old?”

“I don’t remember when he started; I was probably, like, four. He kept doing it until he died, so I was, like, fourteen the last time.”

“Holy shit.”

“Anyway, so I’d open the door, and there would be this-- haha-- this-this fuckin’... giant rabbit-- ha, god, he was such a dork…”

“Ha-ha-h-holy shit, no way--”

“Yes way; there’d be this fuckin’ huge, like, six-foot-- hah-- pink bunny with a --hahhh-- basket full of candy--”

“Hahahah, oh my god, Chloe--”

“Hahhhh… ahhh… God.”

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah…”

“That’s amazing. He was still doing that when you were fourteen??”

“Yeah, he’d probably still be doing it. I’d be, like, begging him not to - I’m too old for this, you’re such a dork, blah blah blah - and he’d just… do it anyway. And then, of course, the rabbit would leave, and my dad would come back downstairs ten minutes later to ask us if anything strange happened.”

“He did not.”

“He did.”

“Wow. Yeah, I cannot imagine either of my parents ever doing anything like that.”

“James Amber in a bunny suit is something his political rivals would probably pay good money to see.”

“I’ll bet. I don’t think the stick up his butt would fit into one, though.”

“Hah, good point.”

“So did your dad, like, rent the costume every year, or did he actually own an Easter bunny costume?”

“No idea. I think it was the same one every year, so he probably owned it. It’s probably in a box in the attic somewhere, assuming it hasn’t been donated or trashed to make room for Step-dick’s stuff. He just loved doing stuff like that, though. He’d dress up as Santa, too. I believed in Santa for probably an embarrassing amount of time because of that.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Adorably dorky.”

“Just the way I like it.”

“Lucky me. So what does your family do, then?”

“We go to church.”

“Oh.”

“Yup.”

“‘Kay. I mean, we used to do that, too, but we also did, like, Easter egg hunts and stuff.”

“And bunny costumes, apparently.”

“You know it! So, like, no baskets, no candy, no dying eggs, nothing? Just church?”

“My mom makes pysanky.”

“...She what now?”

“She uses wax to make really ridiculously elaborate and ornate Easter eggs with traditional Ukranian designs.”

“Uh, wow. That sounds… cool?”

“They’re beautiful. She’s really, really good at it. She taught me how to make them years ago, but mostly she just does it herself. It takes a lot of patience and a steady hand. I usually lose patience.”

“So not exactly a fun family bonding activity.”

“Not exactly, no.”

“I’m guessing they don’t hide them around the house for you to find…”

“They sit in an artfully arranged row on the mantel.”

“Ah.”

“And then we dress up in our ‘best’ clothes and go for the traditional family photo op at church. James hobnobs with his political frenemies, Mom and I do our best to look like the perfect, happy family, and then we go home and I try to scrub the dirty feeling of lies out of my skin.”

“That’s… Wow. Fuck, Rach.”

“You guys did Easter egg hunts?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, we did. Max would come over the night before and we’d dye eggs together and make a huge mess. Then she’d have to go home because her parents wanted her home for Easter, but she’d come over again the next day after church. My dad would’ve hidden plastic eggs all over the house and yard, and Max and I would spend at least an hour looking for them. They were full of toys and candy and stuff. It was awesome.”

“That sounds really nice.”

“It was. So, wait, you’ve never had an Easter egg hunt? Like, ever?”

“Never.”

“That’s hella tragic, dude.”

“It is what it is. I rock the shit out of Halloween, at least.”

“I mean, yeah, you do, but--”

“It’s fine, Chloe. Seriously, not every holiday has to be a big deal.”

“Yeah, that’s true, I guess. Last few years have been hella boring, to be honest. Like, your Easter sounds exciting compared to mine these days. Mom and the Step-douche gave up on even trying to drag me to church, so I’ll just be hanging out here all day. I’d probably just embarrass them, anyway.”

“That sucks. But hey, I’ll come see you after church tomorrow, right? So that’s already better than our last Easters.”

“...Yeah. Yeah, that’s true. Hey, you wanna meet at the junkyard tomorrow? Trash up your best clothes?”

“Fuck yes. I’ll see if I can smuggle some wine out of church.”

“If anyone can do it, you can. I believe in you, Rachel Amber.”

“Ha, like you still believe in the Easter Bunny?”

“...Fuck, you’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Aw, what kind of a friend would I be if I did?”

---

(As a personal side note, no, my dad did not dress up as the Easter Bunny. My older cousin did, though. Every year she’d go out to sleep over at a friend’s house, and then in the middle of the rest of us watching SNL together we’d get a “surprise visit” from the Easter Bunny. We’re Jewish, btw.)

#writing prompts #prompt fic #holiday fic #easter fic #amberprice #fanfic #LiS #BtS #Life is Strange #Before the Storm #rachel amber #chloe price

[acoupleofbravedorks]

Through Thick and Thin

Hey yall!  Heard about @shipmistress9‘s Hiccstrid week 2020 celebration, and I wanted to take part in it.  I’m writing up a few things I hope will be done in the next couple days, buuuut I had this rather fluffy commission laying about involving a set up I haven’t seen played around with much in the fandom.  

I will note that this is not my work, and that the author is fine with this being released, but wishes to remain anonymous.  I hope yall like it as much as I did! 

Hiccup meandered along the street, heading nowhere in particular but feeling the need to get out of the house. Typical, his first proper day off work in weeks and he'd woken up too damn early, and then got bored trying to stay indoors and relax. Still, at least it was a nice day out, sun shining but just enough breeze to stop it being sweaty and stifling.

He was just debating heading to the shop for nothing in particular other than a distraction from boredom, when a big shadow fell across his path.

"Hiccup Haddock, is that you?"

Confused, Hiccup looked up from the ground to the source of the voice. His eyes found a very curvy lady, with round cheeks and thick thighs and a soft, round belly resting beneath an ample chest. Realising he was probably staring a bit too low, he lifted his eyes up to her face.

There was something familiar in the blonde hair, the round freckled cheeks and blue eyes...

"Astrid?!"

She'd been his best friend when they were kids, spending endless hours together talking about dragons. Astrid used to chase him with an axe if he bugged her, but it always ended in forgiving cuddles and childish giggles. Then her parents had a very, very messy divorce, and Astrid was whisked away to live with her grandmother to keep her out of it. They'd meant to stay in touch, but they were only kids and it wasn't easy. He lost her grandmothers address when his own parents split, the bit of paper with it written down obviously stolen by mountain trolls when packing up to move out.

Of course, Astrid had been a lanky, skinny child back then, shooting up in height before most of their classmates and charging around so much she obviously burned off a lot of energy.

Now, lanky and skinny were definitely not words he could use to describe her. She seemed to follow his thoughts despite him not voicing them, reaching up to pat her big belly with a laugh. Her smile hadn't changed, completely and utterly her.

"Yeah, I gained quite a few pounds over the years. Grandma's cooking and a lot of lazy food in college, yanno?"

He shrugged, smiling, awash with fond nostalgia for his oldest friend.

"No, no, you look great. It's so good to see you!"

They hugged, her body soft against his but the strength she held him with was surprising, reminding him of how she could easily crush him when they were kids with her super-strength.

"Great to see you too. I barely recognised you, you actually learned to do your hair. And you're so tall!"

"Yeah, puberty hit me like a ton of bricks, as I've been told. And I had to learn to do my hair, else I get awful helmet hair when I'm out on my bike."

"Finally got your wheels?"

She obviously remembered him fawning over motorcycles in his dads mechanic-themed magazines as a kid, always insisting he'd be riding one as soon as possible.

"Yep! So... what are you doing here? Are you around for long? Want to go somewhere and catch up?"

He realised he was talking kind of quickly, still buzzing with the pleasant surprise of seeing her again. Astrid nodded, beaming.

"Sounds good!"

As they walked, Astrid informed him she'd just moved back to the area when her job got transferred there.

"What do you do?"

"Just some machine assembly work. Not exciting, but pays the bills and it fit around classes when I was at uni. And, to everyones surprise, I'm not phased by trudging around on my feet all day on the factory floor. What about you?"

"Garage, obviously. Up to my elbows in grease and metal all day every day."

Astrid smiled.

"You must be thrilled!"

Hiccup nodded, grinning.

"Yeah. So, where are we going again?"

"Little place I like. Good food and sturdy furniture."

She wasn't kidding - Hiccup didn't actually fill the chair, and it definitely felt strong under him as he perched, watching Astrid scour the menu and exchanging friendly greetings with the staff.

"You brought a date! Sarah, come see this!"

"He's not my date, you mad woman. Just a friend. Hiccup, please ignore her."

Feeling his cheeks flush slightly, he laughed it off.

"Oooh, with a smile like that he'll be snapped up if you won't have him Astrid!"

Blinking in surprise, Hiccup watched as Astrid shooed off the waitress with demands for chocolate milkshake while they looked at the food options.

"Sorry. They're a little too friendly sometimes. I think I keep them afloat with how much I eat here."

She giggled as she said it, humming before smiling over the top of the little paper foldout at Hiccup. He smiled back.

"It's fine. So, what's good here then, if you know them so well?"

"Oh, everything. But if I remember rightly, you like your food meaty, so I'd go with the steak burger. And if you ask nicely, they put a scoop of ice cream in your milkshake."

Trusting Astrid's judgement - and it did sound delicious - Hiccup ordered what she recommended, and was very pleased by how tasty it was. Astrid had the same, plus some kind of cheese-fries mountain on the side. They chatted between bites, catching up on all the years gone by since they lost touch, whiling away well over an hour there before Astrid frowned at her phone, then looked up at him.

"Sorry, I gotta go, work needs me in. We should do this again soon, now I'm back down here."

"Yeah, sounds great."

They traded numbers, paid and tipped the servers and hugged goodbye outside. Hiccup found himself smiling, warmed and happy about Astrid being back in his life already. He continued on to the shop, pleasantly full of food as he pottered about the aisles, picking up a few things and heading home afterwards.

Astrid texted him that evening when she got off work, and the two quickly compared schedules so they could hang out again soon by phone call.

"If you tell me what you like eating, I'll cook you dinner one of the days."

Hiccup offered, hearing the smile in her voice when he offered.

"Ah, you already know the way to my heart!"

"Well, you said you ate a lot of 'lazy food', I thought home cooked might be a nice change for you."

"Hey, I'm not complaining!"

After forgetting to give her his address on the phone and hastily texting it to her the next day, Hiccup got to planning and prepping, ready to cook. Her hearty appetite was a bonus to him - he loved cooking, and was pretty used to cooking for his dad and uncle Gobber, so big portions came rather naturally. When he visited his mom, she often reminded him neither of them could put away as much food, and there were always leftovers.

He opened the door at her punctual knock, Astrid beaming as she stood in his doorway.

"Come on in."

"Ooooh, your place smells amazing!"

"That'll be dinner. Unless it's me. I did shower today."

She snorted, shaking her head at his feigned bragging.

"Oh, you haven't changed."

It was like no time at all had passed, the two reconnecting easily, having each other in fits of laughter. Astrid still shoved him playfully, though it had a bit more force to it now than when they were kids. They reminisced over childhood TV favourites, and got a little tipsy on the wine Astrid brought over to accompany dinner.

"Ah, I missed you so much!"

Astrid threw her thick arm around him, squeezing Hiccup to her side. Chuckling, he hugged her back.

"I missed you too!"

He offered to let Astrid stay the night (platonically!), but she declined and so he saw her in to a taxi that evening after plates were clean and they'd arranged another meet-up. She pecked a kiss on his cheek with a smile before climbing in to the car, Hiccup watching her go and feeling genuinely sad to see her go. Their friendship had awakened effortlessly, and there were years to catch up on.

It was a couple of days before they got to see each other again, but they chatted over the phone and put on the same terrible TV shows so they could rag on them together, which Hiccup found absolutely hilarious.

At first, Astrid's weight gain didn't really... come up. She was still Astrid. There was just... more Astrid.

But when they were both off work and the weather was nice, Hiccup suggested a picnic. Others obviously had the same idea, so there were quite a few people out in the field. Hiccup put an old throw down for them to sit on, Astrid joking she'd need help getting back up as she sat down, mid-thigh shorts straining slightly as she got comfortable.

Some rude passerby made a rude comment about her size, and Hiccup found himself incredibly annoyed. Astrid barely seemed to notice, at least until she looked up with a glare that could curdle milk.

"I can lose weight. You'll always be an asshole, and I don't remember asking for your opinion. Now go away."

The guy recoiled, then looked over at Hiccup. Hiccup was, incidentally, holding a knife. It was for cheese, but it seemed to look threatening enough that the rude stranger decided not to continue digging themselves into a hole and left.

"Are you ok?"

"Me? I'm fine. It happens, and hey, they can go home to a salad while I have a heaping pile of lasagna. Guess which of us is happier for dinner?"

She was smiling, but Hiccup still shuffled over and gave her a hug. Astrid let him, then nudged him and nodded at his bag.

"Food?"

"Sure."

They ate and chatted and lounged in the sun, Astrid looking pretty and at ease as she laid back on the throw and closed her eyes, soaking up the sunshine that hit her skin. After a little while, she cracked an eye open, peering up at him.

"Are you watching me?"

"Not intentionally. I'm debating if it's too bright to get my sketchpad out, and your top is white so it's a good point of reference."

She rolled her eyes, then went back to sunbathing. Hiccup did get the sketchpad out, doodling the nearby scenery - there was a river a little ways away, with some rocks and trees littering the banks.

"You were always scribbling when we were little too."

"I like drawing. It was something me and mom did together a lot, so I guess it's a lot of happy memories. Oh, by the way, mom wants to see you soon!"

"She does?"

Hiccup nodded.

"Yeah. I mentioned you'd moved back down this way and she was thrilled, asked when I was bringing you over."

Astrid smiled.

"I did always like Valka. How is she doing?"

"See for yourself, next time you're free I can invite her over to come for dinner?"

For a minute, Astrid looked oddly... nervous.

"Is that wise?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is she gonna go all 'should you be eating that' or sly digs about my weight?"

Hiccup raised an eyebrow, bemused.

"You do remember the size of my dad, right? Mom's not gonna care in the slightest. She'll probably laugh and say I found someone who's appetite matches my cooking portions."

Finally, Astrid smiled again. Eventually, they agreed to go, and Hiccup managed to help Astrid back to her feet, taking a leisurely walk along the path to get out of the park before school let out and the place was flooded with children itching for freedom.

The only flaw in the walk was the rather aggressive wasp that chased Hiccup, but he managed to lose it eventually while Astrid very unhelpfully roared with laughter.

"I think he liked you."

"I think he wanted the leftover juice in my bag."

Feeling that usual contentment that spending time with Astrid gave him, Hiccup was sad to see her go, but she did agree to the dinner with his mom. Hiccup relayed that information to Valka, who was thrilled and giddy about it. He did give her advance information that there was quite a bit more of Astrid than before, so that she was prepared and wouldn't make Astrid feel uncomfortable. His mother, as Hiccup predicted, was not phased in the slightest.

Valka arrived first, hugging Hiccup tightly and ruffling his hair as she asked about the minute amount of things that had happened since they last saw each other and he shooed her away from the kitchen side.

"You're a hazard!"

She tsked, then leapt excitedly when the door knocked again.

"Astrid!"

"Oh my gods, Valka! I swear, you haven't aged a day!"

Well, those two were getting on like a house on fire in seconds, Hiccup smiling to himself all the while as Astrid headed over to hug him in greeting. She looked very nice that day - not that she didn't always, really - in a brown skirt and blue shirt, placing a bottle of wine to contribute to dinner on the side before she went back to chatting with Hiccup's mother.

The evening went absolutely wonderfully, conversation flowing easily. Of course, his mother did her best to fill Astrid in on all the embarrassing moments that happened while she was away, Hiccup's awkward teen years out in the open and Astrid fell about laughing while Hiccup pouted. He couldn't stay mad about how happy the atmosphere was though, and after walking Astrid down to her taxi, he returned to his mother who was loading the dishwasher for him (one of his little weaknesses, because he cooked so much).

"Did you have fun tonight mom?"

"It was wonderful! And I'm so happy you two reconnected, that you've found someone t-"

Wait, wait. Hiccup realised his mother had gotten the wrong idea somewhere along the lines.

"Whoa, mom. Slow down. It's not like that."

She stopped, blinking.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I mean, Astrid's great and it's amazing having her around again, but we're just friends."

Somehow, she did not look convinced.

"Really?"

"What do you mean, really?"

His mother shrugged, knowing look on her face as she checked the side and closed the dishwasher.

"Nothing, nothing. I just... you seem very cosy, that's all. And I see the way you smile at her. I just thought you seemed rather smitten."

Now it was Hiccup's turn to blink, confused.

"I... what? No. I'm not smitten."

"If you say so son. I should get going, I have work tomorrow."

She hugged her son and kissed his hair, all while Hiccup was still sorting through his thoughts somewhat. He hadn't really thought about whether or not he was attracted to Astrid. She was Astrid. They were childhood best friends, and he'd assumed they'd just reverted to the same sort of relationship now. Simple, right?

And his mother thought they were actually dating. So... did that mean Astrid was giving off some kind of signal only moms could notice too?

No, that was ridiculous...

Right?

He scrubbed a hand across his face, drained the last bit of wine into a glass rather than bother storing what was barely a single serving. Then he sat down on the sofa and sighed, sipping slowly at the wine and absently picking at leftover dessert.

Hiccup was no closer to clarity the next day, a mild headache from either the wine or the constant thinking nagging him when he woke up. A couple of painkillers washed down with his morning coffee took that away though, leaving him to text Astrid and invite her over for movie night sometime soon. Plenty confused by his mothers words, Hiccup figured the best chance of clearing it all up in his head was to actually talk to Astrid.

They sat on his bed, a huge bowl of popcorn between them, and pizza delivery called for and due thirty minutes from then. Hiccup fiddled with a few bits of popcorn until they were crumbs, knowing he'd regret it later when he had to get all the crumbs out of his bed.

"Want to hear something funny?"

Astrid glanced over, raising popcorn to her mouth.

"Sure?"

Hiccup drank some water for his suddenly dry mouth.

"My mom thought I was introducing you to her as my girlfriend."

He watched for her response. Astrid crunched her popcorn a little more slowly, using her drink to clear the remnants from her mouth before she answered.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Started gushing about how happy she was I'd 'found someone'."

Astrid tsked, rolling her eyes.

"Like that's ever gonna happen."

Hiccup, still unsure until just then, realised he was disappointed by her dismissal.

"Wow, you are really rough on my ego."

She laughed, shaking her head.

"I didn't mean cus of anything about you! I just meant... come on, it's not like you're gonna be interested in me like that."

Hiccup frowned.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She gave him an exasperated look.

"It means... I'm fine with how I look and all that, I could change it but yanno, I'm healthy enough and I can move around. But it's not... pretty."

Hiccup shook his head.

"That's really what you think?"

Astrid nodded, gave a non-commital shrug.

"It's the truth."

She reached for more popcorn. Hiccup moved the bowl, placing it aside so he could kneel up next to her without sending the kernels cascading everywhere. Astrid frowned.

"What?"

"I just... I don't like you putting yourself down. And... well... I think you're beautiful."

Astrid, normally so forward and confident, dropped her gaze from his, freckled cheeks flushing.

"Yeah. Sure."

"I'm serious!"

She turned back to look at him, expression unreadable.

Then she kissed him.

Hiccup wasn't expecting it, but it didn't take much time for his brain to catch up and respond in kind. They found themselves horizontal sooner rather than later, hands roaming and touching exploring over clothes. There was so much of Astrid to feel, after all, thick thighs he squeezed at gently, enthralled by the way Astrid gasped against his mouth.

She was soft and pliant everywhere his hands landed, from her plush hips to her juicy backside. Her hands made short work of him, sliding under his shirt to roam his bare skin beneath. Hiccup felt himself harden against her stomach, prominent and soft and warm as it pressed against him. He kept his own hands above clothes for the moment, though he let his hands roam a little over her chest, pleased when he was not rebuffed.

Surprising even himself a little bit, Hiccup let his hands wander down to her belly, rather transfixed by it now he had the free reign to be. He rubbed it, felt Astrid tense up slightly at his touch.

"What's wrong?"

"It's just... big."

"So?"

Hiccup continued to rub her belly, fingers finding bare skin where her shirt had rucked up with their squirming on his bed. There were bumps and ripples of stretch marks that he couldn't quite resist tracing, Astrid letting out a sound halfway to a giggle. He wriggled down, wanting Astrid to feel reassured, safe, desirable. Kisses dropped over the soft bump of her belly, and she actually giggled at the tickling of his hair when Hiccup wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her tummy properly.

"What are you doing?"

"Proving to you that you have nothing to worry about. Plus... I like it."

"Seriously?"

He nodded, smiling when Astrid relaxed. She urged him back up, but their kisses grew a little lazier, more relaxed when he moved, hands staying above the waist. Astrid played idly with his hair, which he found sweet enough that he smiled in to their kiss, Astrid returning it before they both dissolved in to giggles, breaking apart to catch their breath.

The timing was good, as the door knocked just then to announce the arrival of their pizza.

"Back in a minute. You want a plate or shall we eat out the box?"

"Well, there's fries and garlic bread too, so yeah, plates might be a good idea."

Hiccup nodded, pecking a kiss on Astrid's lips that brought another adorable smile to her face before he climbed off the bed reluctantly, exchanging money for tasty food. The delivery guy definitely gave Hiccup a "no way you'll eat all this" look, not matching the volume of food to Hiccup's narrow frame.

Stacking plates on the top of the pizza box, Hiccup headed back to where Astrid awaited him, cheeks still pink, eyes bright, clothes rumpled and he felt a little breathless for how gorgeous she really was.

"Can I interest you in dinner, milady?"

"Absolutely. Although, garlic bread seemed a better idea before there was kissing."

He chuckled.

"We'll both have bad breath. Alternatively, I have a spare toothbrush you can use."

They plated up, and after a little adjusting, Astrid leant herself against Hiccup with a soft sigh. He could only eat one handed, but that was a small price to pay. He rather liked the weight of her there. Astrid was harder to convince, eventually suggesting they swap places. Perching himself on her lap did have it's perks, like the feel of her soft thighs under him, her round belly against him, and he could feed her until she let out the sweetest little giggles.

"So..." Hiccup dared to venture the question when they'd finished eating, having lost all track of whatever film he'd put on earlier "what is this? What are we?"

Astrid hummed, wrapping a thick arm around him and Hiccup thrilled in the reassuring grip.

"Well... much as you will surely hate to admit it, I'd say you can tell your mom she was right after all."

As she kissed him again, both paying no mind to garlic breath, Hiccup found the prospect of having to tell his mother that wasn't so bad, since it meant Astrid was now his girlfriend.

#ooc #Astrid #Astrid Hofferson #Hiccup #Hiccstrid #Hiccstrid Week 2020 #commission #chubstrid #plumpstrid #iunno #just think the idea of her liks this is both cute and interesting

[avengerscompound]

That Kid You Knew - Chapter 6

That Kid You Knew: An Iron Man Fanfic

Masterlist Previous //

Buy me a ☕ Square:  @marvelfluffbingo - Free Space

Warning:  Smut (Oral sex, vaginal sex)

Word Count:  2725

Pairing:  Tony Stark x F!Reader

Summary:  You had grown up knowing Tony Stark but as you’d gotten older you’d lost track of him.  When you see him at a party you have a drug-fueled one-night-stand with him.

10 years later he finds you again and has to come to terms with the fact he’s been a father all the time.

Chapter 6

All the first dates you’d had up until now had taken a similar route.  You’d spend a few hours alone, getting ready.  The guy would show up while you were almost but not quite ready.  He’d take you somewhere.  Dinner maybe.  A club.  Often it was to the movies.  Then you’d come home.  If it went well, there might be making out or even sex.  If not, you’d give them the awkward hug and head inside alone.

That was a long time ago.  Back then you didn’t have a kid.  You were just a single woman with no one relying on you.  You went to work, and when there was fun to be had you had it.  Things were very different now.  Now you had a career.  You had a son.  Also, your date was starting by getting home late from work to find the man you were seeing, playing ball in the yard with your son.  His son.

His jacket was draped over the back of one of your garden chairs and there was some kind of bot involved as the two of them charged around the yard.  You weren’t quite sure which of them looked more delighted.  When Tony saw you, he smiled.

“You’re late!”

“Work.  How’d everything go?”

“Good.  I like this whole, ‘picking my kid up from school thing’.”  He said and tossed the ball.  The droid swooped in and caught it and then flew off.

“Dad!”  Owen whined, taking off after it as it zoomed around the fence line.

Tony came over to you and kissed your cheek.  “Are you going to get ready?”

You leaned in against him and inhaled.  He was sweaty and still running quite warm and he smelled good.  Earthy and salty.  With the woody and floral undertones of his cologne underlying it.  You wrapped your arms around his waist and he kissed you on top of the head as he closed his arms around you.  “Did you just sniff me?”

“Mm-hmm.”  You hummed.  “You smell so good.”

He gave you a squeeze and let you go, smacking your ass.  “Go get ready.”

“You go get ready,”  You countered.

“I will.  I was waiting for you to get back.”  He said.  “Did you want me to take Owen over to your mom’s place on the way?”

You leaned up and kissed him again.  Despite the fact you hadn’t actually been on a date with Tony yet, you had already fallen into a casual familiarity.  He didn’t sleep over but when he was around, the two of you touched in that unconscious, incidental way.  Bushing your hands over each other as you passed in the hall.  Quick stolen kisses in the kitchen while you cooked.  Standing together like this, just leaning on him, and if you felt like it, kissing.  It had been a long time since you’d had this with anyone.  You’re not quite sure if you’d ever really had this with anyone.

Tony never stayed the night but he was around a lot.  Your house was mostly unpacked because he’d ended up paying people to come and do it and while they did he spent time with you and Owen.  He started picking up Owen every day from school and he’d be here waiting for you.  You’d have dinner as a family.  He’d help Owen with his homework and then send him off to bed.  When you knew he was asleep he’d come to the couch and the two of you would make out.  He never pushed you for more.  He seemed quite comfortable with taking it slow like you’d asked.  Which was odd, because… well, he was Tony Stark.

You weren't so sure about the whole taking it slow thing anymore.  He felt so right.  More right than any decision you had made up until this point.  He was fun to be around.  He was patient and kind with Owen.  He was Owen’s dad.

It also didn't help that he was extremely easy on the eyes.  All he had to do was smile at you the right way and your panties would disintegrate.

“If you don't mind,” you said.  “Owen! Come give me a kiss hello and then grab your stuff so your dad can take you to grandma’s!”

Owen ran over and you hugged and kissed him.  “How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Nothing to report?”

“Nope.  I’ll go get my things.”  He said and ran inside.

“Like drawing blood from a stone sometimes, I swear.” You joked. 

Tony chuckled and wrapped you in his arms.  Owen had been delighted to find out that you and Tony were seeing each other. He had big plans for a wedding already, despite the fact you and Tony weren’t even sure if either of you were the marrying types.  Of the list of things you were worried about regarding ‘dating Tony Stark’ was concerned the biggest wasn’t the celebrity part, it was worrying that you were doing all this for Owen’s sake, and how badly he’d take it if it didn’t work out.

Tony cupped you jaw and leaned in, kissing you slowly.  His tongue just barely teased over yours.  When he broke the kiss he leaned his forehead on yours and stroked his thumb along your jaw.  “Don’t tell anyone, but I might be falling for you.”  He whispered.

“Mmm… me too,”  you breathed.

“So, tell me,”  He whispered,  his forehead still pressed against yours.  “Are you the kind of woman who puts out on a first date?”

You started giggling and pinched his side.  “That’s not very romantic.” You said and headed inside.

He slapped your ass as you turned away from him.  “I’m very romantic.”

After Tony took Owen, you went upstairs to get ready.  You dressed in something flirty and colorful and matched your makeup to match it. The pair of shoes you chose fit somewhere on that line between pretty and comfortable.

Tony returned an hour and a half later.  Normally he just let himself in but tonight he rang the doorbell.  You answered it to find him dressed in a three-piece suit.  It was light gray with a purple tie and tailored to fit him exactly.  He smiled at you and held up a bouquet of red roses.

“Aww,”  You teased as you took them.  “You really are a romantic.”

“Told you,”  He joked and kissed your cheek.

You took the flowers inside and put them in the only vase you own.  It’s a little too small for them but you jammed them in as best you could.

“Looks good,”  Tony teased as you put them on the kitchen table.

“Gee thanks,”  You said.

He laughed and took your hand.  “Come on.  We have a date to go on.”

He drove you to a little Italian Restaurant in Brooklyn.  You’d never been there before but apparently, he had because he went in through the back entrance through the kitchen and some of the people greeted him by name.

“Mr. Stark, so pleased to see you again!”  The chef said.  He turned and looked you over appreciatively.  “Your date is beautiful.”

Before you can even thank him he calls to a waiter and you’re led to a quiet booth in the back of the restaurant, a bottle of red wine as well as a jug of water and left without either of you ordering a thing.

“So, come here often?”  You smirked.

Tony laughed and poured you a glass of the red.  “I wouldn’t say a lot.  But it is good food and they don’t make a scene of me being here.  I tip large.  It works for me.”

“That’s good.  I gotta say, I’m scared of the being spotted out thing.  People are already so mean to me.  They all hate me for what I did.”  You said frowning.

Tony sighed and took both your hands in his, holding them up to his lips.  “They don’t know you.  They don’t even know me.  They just think they do.  They see you as competition in a race they aren’t entered in.”

“That’s not just it though.  They hate that I hurt you.  And I did.  I did hurt you, Tony.”  You argued.

He let out a breath.  “When I found out about Owen it felt like you ripped my heart out.  It hurt.  But the truth is, it was more like, you made me aware that I had a heart in the first place.”

You smiled and stroked your thumb along his jaw.  “You have a heart?”

He laughed and shook his head.  “You’re such a little shit.  What do you think this is for?”  He said tapping his arc reactor.

“Aesthetics?”

He roared with laughter and kissed your hands.  “I love you.  Both of you.  Don’t read what they say about you, they don’t know shit.”

You took a breath and nodded.  “Really?”

“Really.”

You picked up the menu and opened it.  “You keep saying you love me.”

Tony laughed.  “Thought I might get that one as a freebie.”

“I can pretend it didn’t happen if you want me to.”  You said, gazing at him over the top of the menu.

He picked up his menu and shook his head.  “No, it’s good you know.  I don’t use those words enough, even when I do mean them.  I think … They have power.  You hand them to the wrong person and they can use them to hurt you.  Or at least that’s been my experience.”  He said.  “You don’t need to… anything really… It’s soon.  But I need to grow up.  Let people have access to that part of me.”

You put down your menu and pushed his to the table, he tilted his head looking at you and you leaned over the table and kissed him.  He smiled into it and caressed your jaw.  When you pulled back you picked up the menu and went back to browsing.

“If I knew saying how I felt led to that, I would have done it sooner.”  He joked.

“Tony… I -” 

He waved you off.  “It’s fine.  It’s too soon.  I know it is.  I just do.  So… let’s not make a big deal about it.”  He said waving his hands around, indicating his story had reached its conclusion.

The waitress came over and took your order.  When she left Tony reached over the table and took our hand.

“Why me, Tony?”  You asked, looking up at him.  “You’re Tony Stark.  You have people fantasizing about you day and night.  Thousands of people. You had strings of people who you would bring home.  You could have just about anyone.  Why me?”

He laughed, but there was no humor to it.  “Yeah… anyone.  That’s why I’m single in my forties.”

“Sorry,”  You said sheepishly.

He shook his head.  “It’s fine.  I get it.”  He let out a breath and his hand went to his glasses before dropping it.  “I think it’s me.  I’m broken.  My dad couldn’t even tell me he loved me.  I’m unlovable.”

“Tony, you’re not -”

He held up his hand.  “Hey, you asked the question.  Let me give you the answer.”  He said.  “So, I push people away.  Even the one time I had … something… it’s not easy being with me.  I get caught up with work a lot.  I’m never around.  There’s the whole Iron Man, Avengers stuff that will keep you awake at night.  I think that’s what killed the last one.  It’s hard to be sure.  Then there’s the rumor mill.  I’m dating Nat.  I’m dating Cap.  I’m on drugs.  I’m bringing home sex workers.  I have all the STDs.  It’s a lot.  I’m a lot.”  He slid around the booth and put his arm around your shoulders.  “Can I ask you something?  When was the last time you did something - made a decision relating to your life - where you didn’t think about how it would affect someone else?  Where you just went; I want to do that for me?”

You sighed and leaned into him.  “It was that night, Tony.  I haven’t done anything that I haven’t thought about how it might at least affect Owen since I got high and had sex with you.”

“Even now… when you question how the public sees you, are you worried about you being hurt by that or me?”  He asked.

“I’m worried about you.  You’re the one that has to field questions from the press.”  You answered.  “You’re the one with the fans.”

His hand went to your jaw and he stroked his thumb over your cheek.  “You are so selfless.  You never take shit from anyone, but somehow you just keep giving and giving of yourself.  Maybe it’s time to do something you want to do.”

You leaned in and kissed him, wrapping his arms around your neck and relaxing into it.  You ran your tongue over the corner of his lips and he brought his tongue to meet yours, circling them together.

That’s how you stayed until the waitress brought you your food.  After dinner, you and Tony when to see a movie.  It was an exclusive little cinema, with only ten sets of paired off electric recliners and waitstaff to bring you drinks and food throughout the film.  You ordered a ‘death by chocolate’ dessert plate to share along with a cosmo for you and a single malt scotch for him.  About halfway through, you moved from your recliner to his, squeezing in beside him and resting your head on his chest.  He trailed his fingers up and down your side.

When he took you home he walked you to your door and you pulled your keys out to let yourself in.

“What, no goodbye kiss?”  He asked as he watched you fumble with the lock.

 “Wouldn’t that happen tomorrow?”  You smirked.

His face lit up and he spun you into his arms.  “On the first date?  Man, you do put out easy.”

“I thought that was a well-established fact,” you teased.  “But by all means, you’re free to say no.”

He chuckled and you started walking backward, leading Tony into your house.  He kicked the door closed behind him and lifted you.  You wrapped your legs around him and you frantically kissed as he carried you to your bedroom.  He bumped into a small set of shelves and a decorative table as he moved down the hall.

When he got to the bedroom he pushed you against the wall and slowly let you slip to the floor as you kissed frantically. You bit his bottom lip and he growled deep in the back of his throat.

His hand slid over your jaw and down your neck.  The way they felt against you made your skin feel warm and yet you broke out in goosebumps in the wake of his fingers.  They moved down your back and unzipped your dress.  He pulled back from you, breaking the kiss.  You looked up at him and let out a shuddering breath.  His eyes were clouded with lust and his lips were slightly pink and swollen.  He ran his tongue over his top lip and slowly slid his hands down your arms, pushing the straps of your dress down before them.

Despite how hot you feel a shiver ran through you as your dress slipped to the ground and pooled around your feet.

“Tony…”  You breathed, reaching up and beginning to unbutton his shirt.

“Mmm?”  He hummed as his fingertips trailed over the line between the lace of your bra and your skin.

“I feel like an idiot.  Because I love you too.  Did I waste 10 years? Could we have been a family back then?”

He nuzzled against your cheek, his beard scratching your skin.  “No,” he whispered.  “You were right.  The man I was then.  He’s not who I am now.”

“You reached the bottom of the buttons of pushed his shirt off.  It fell near your dress and you start to kiss down his chest as you unfasten his belt.  You kiss near the arc reactor, your lips grazing over the scarring.  He hadn’t had the arc when you last saw him, and you could feel the way his ribs had been carved away to house it.

He groaned and his head fall back as your mouth moved along his ribcage and you flicked your tongue over his nipple.  When you worked his belt off he lifted you for a second spinning you around and putting you back on the ground. You backed slowly towards the bed, both of you shedding clothes as with each step.  Your shoes.  Your bra.  His pants and socks.  Finally, you both dropped your underwear and he lifted you and sat you on the end of the bed.

You looked up at him as he stood in front of you, his cock rock hard before him.  You took it in your hand and pumped it a couple of times before leaning forward and running your tongue up its length.  He moaned and you swirled your tongue over the head as you gazed up at him.

A smile played over your lips and you started to suck.  Just the head first, using a lot of suction and hollowing your cheeks before lapping your tongue over it.  Tony let out a hiss and his hands bunched in your hair.  You took him deep in the back of your throat and curled your tongue around his shaft.

Tony’s hips moved a little, just a gentle roll that never pushed him further than you could take.  You squeezed his ass cheeks and teased your fingers over his asshole.  He groaned loudly and his head fell back.

You found yourself really enjoying yourself.  The way his cock felt in your mouth.  The taste of his precome as it dripped on your tongue. The soft groans and whimpers he made.

Your impatience to have him inside of you overwrote how much you were enjoying sucking his dick.  It had been so long since you’d had sex, you wanted him, needed him desperately. You let him go and he immediately dropped to his knees and pulled you to the edge of the bed.  He put your knees over your shoulders and began to kiss the inside of your thighs.  He was gentle at first but was soon sucking hard enough to leave a trail of bruises to your pussy.

He placed a large open-mouthed kiss on your cunt.  He sucked on your folds and slowly pulled back making you gasp and arch up off the mattress.  He smirked at you and flattened his tongue, licking up your folds and teasing it over your clit.

Your whole body buzzed like a live wire and you squirmed under him.  “Tony, please,”  You pleaded.  “I need you.”

Tony chuckled and focused his tongue on your clit.  He flicked his tongue over it before sucking it into his mouth.  You keened and arched up again.  He plunged two of his fingers into our cunt and you squeezed around them in shock.

He hummed against your clit as you twisted under him.  He held you down, pushing down on your hip to keep you in place as his fingers touched down on your g-spot. You cried out and bucked up against him, clutching at your sheets.  He focused on that spot, pressing and dragging his fingers over it again and again as he sucked on your clit.

You started panting and chanting the word ‘fuck’ under your breath.  Tony held you in place as he dragged your orgasm out of you.  You could feel the pressure of it running through you.  When it broke your whole body spasmed with it.

Tony stroked you through your orgasm.  When he got up off the floor he smiled down at you with glistening lips.  He collected his pants up off the floor and you sat up and watched as he pulled his wallet out and took out a condom.

“Good thinking.”  You teased.

He laughed and climbed into bed, sitting up against the headboard.  “I do like to learn from my mistakes.”  He said as he rolled the condom on and offered you his hand.  “Though the more time passes, the more I realize that might have been the best mistake I’ve ever made.”

You let him guide you over his lap and he pulled his legs up behind you.  You sunk down in his lap, guiding his cock inside of you.  “You old softie,”  You hummed as his cock stretched and filled you.

You started to rock against him.  He wrapped his arms around you and held one hand on your neck and the other at the small of your back.  You started kissing him, tasting yourself on his lips.  You tried to go slow, making this about that first-time connection between two people.  The concept went right out the window almost immediately.  You became frantic, kissing each other desperately.  Pulling hair.  Bouncing hard on his lap.

You came again and your legs shaking with it.  He pushed you back, putting your feet up on his shoulders as your orgasm still quakes through you.  He started fucking hard into you.  You stretched your arms up over your head and clutch at the sheets as your back curves away from the mattress.  “Fuck!  Yes!  Fuck me hard!”  You cried.

He pounded into you.  His eyes locked with yours as he held your hips with one hand, digging his fingers into your flesh.  His other hand he used to rub your clit hard and fast.  Another orgasm took hold of you and as you came, Tony did too.  He grunted as he spilled inside you.

You let your legs slip down and he leaned over and kissed you.  “I love you,” he breathed.

“I love you too, Tony.”  You replied, pulling him down against you and kissing him hard.

He slipped from within you and you both got up to clean up a little and get ready for bed.  When you were back under the covers he wrapped you in his arms.  “Do you think I could start sleeping over more regularly?  I kind of want to do the morning rush?”

You sighed happily.  The thought of you actually getting to be a family made you feel warm inside.  “Yeah.  I’d like that.”

// NEXT

#marvelfluffbingo #tony stark #iron man #iron man fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #fluff #smut #that kid you knew

[sevenfists]

drawerfic #2: hockey hugs

I wrote this for @werebeary more than a year ago; we were very emotional about all of Sid and Geno’s bench hugs during the 2017 Cup run. I think I might have cannibalized parts of this for “All the Way Through” if anything seems oddly familiar. 3.5k, there’s some hanky-panky in here but nothing explicit.

1. February 19

Sid wasn’t an emotional guy, but all the business with his thousandth point was getting him pretty worked up: the crowd screaming, his parents crying—his dad crying. All of the stuff his teammates said about him to reporters. It was just a lot to deal with. And then, when he thought it was mostly finished, there was a pre-game ceremony in the locker room, the team core waiting to present him with a golden stick.

Fuck. He was definitely going to get choked up, and someone was definitely going to catch it on film.

He hugged Kuni and Tanger, who he had known for so long that they were basically family, and Flower, who was family, and who Sid was going to lose. He was so distracted by that thought that he forgot about Geno.

“Hey! Give me a hug,” Geno said, joking but also not.

Well: okay.

In hockey, a hug meant nothing.

No, that wasn’t true: it meant you were teammates, and you liked and trusted each other. You shared big joys and big sorrows. You were friends, or at least you got along well enough and maybe went to each other’s houses from time to time for a cookout or to watch football. You hugged on the ice, shamelessly; you hugged in the locker room, but those hugs were more reserved, a quick arm around the shoulders and a pat on the back, or a clasp of the hands and a bump of the shoulders. There were rules about all of this, even though nobody ever talked about them. During games, all bets were off, but the rest of the time, you still had to act like men.

Geno knew the rules, but he liked to bend them. Everyone let him get away with it, because who knew what kind of weird shit they got up to in Russia? And Geno had a special talent for making everything seem like a joke.

But it was still weird when he asked Sid for a hug.

Not weird: awkward. The hug itself was awkward, and that was weird. Sid had been hugging Geno for a decade. They’d had plenty of practice. There was no reason for it be awkward, but—it was.

Geno hugged him again in the locker room after the game. They had lost, which usually put a damper on things, but Geno approached Sid anyway, shirtless and sweaty, and wrapped him in a bear hug.

“G, you smell terrible,” Sid said, his words muffled against Geno’s shoulder.

“You’re best,” Geno said. His lips brushed Sid’s ear. He squeezed hard, and Sid laughed breathlessly and tried to break out of his grasp, but Geno held him firm. “Best,” Geno said again, and then he released Sid and stepped away with a swat to his ass.

Later that night, Sid curled up in bed with his tablet and watched the video again, the one with current and former players congratulating him. Horny was wearing a Penguins workout shirt, Kuni had actual sweat dripping down his neck post-practice, and Geno was inexplicably in a suit and tie, his hair combed. Sid watched that part a few times, listening to Geno’s familiar accent, his wholly familiar teasing.

Maybe there had been signs before then, and Sid just hadn’t noticed. But looking back, that was when he first started to wonder.

2. March 25

In Buffalo, the Penguins clinched their playoff spot, and Sid lost a few teeth. It wasn’t a big deal; they were fake anyway. An hour after the game, he was good as new.

Geno was out after blocking a shot with his shoulder and hadn’t traveled with the team, but when Sid checked his phone back at the hotel, Geno had texted him: Sid not pretty((((

Sid rolled his eyes. Pretty wasn’t in his job description. My teeth are fine. Thanks for the concern

Geno sent him a penguin emoji. best goal, and playoffs!! celebrate when u home

For sure, Sid replied, the way he agreed with most of Geno’s schemes, never really expecting them to get off the ground.

But when they were back in town a few days later, on a rare day off between playing the Islanders and playing the Flyers, Geno texted him mid-morning: come for dinner, I cook!!

Sid regarded his phone dubiously. He and Geno weren’t on casual dinner invitation terms, and he also didn’t really want to eat Geno’s cooking, which could most kindly be described as edible. Is this a prank?

Geno texted a string of eye-roll emojis, and then, no prank, want celebrate!!! I make freezer pelmeni

The infamous freezer pelmeni were made by Geno’s mom, and lovingly hoarded. Nealsy was the only non-Russian who had ever been permitted to eat them, and Sid still heard about it every time they played the Preds. Geno was pulling out all the stops.

Okay, dinner sounds good, Sid replied, mostly because he wanted to be able to take the wind out of Nealsy’s sails.

He drove to Geno’s that evening. Geno was waiting for him on the front step. He was dressed up, a little, in nice jeans and a collared shirt, one that Sid vaguely remembered complimenting when Geno had first worn it. Sid looked down at his own T-shirt and well-worn jeans and felt distinctly under-dressed, which wasn’t a feeling he had ever thought he would associate with Geno.

“Uh, I brought wine,” he said, and offered Geno the bottle.

“Sid! Don’t have to bring,” Geno said, as if Trina Crosby would ever raise a son who showed up empty-handed. But Geno smiled, and accepted the bottle, and guided Sid into the house with one hand resting lightly on his back.

Dinner was ready, even though Sid was exactly on time and had sort of expected that Geno wouldn’t have even started. There were flowers on the table, a nice seasonal arrangement. Geno opened the wine and took off his apron.  

“Bon appetit,” Geno said, and Sid grinned at how good his pronunciation was: too much exposure to French Canadians.

They ate. The dumplings were good, and Geno told a series of very funny stories, about a friend who fell overboard during a fishing trip, and three baby raccoons breaking in to a neighbor’s house. Sid realized after a while that Geno was exerting himself to be charming. Well, Geno was charming all the time, casually, incidentally, to everyone around him; but he didn’t usually expend any particular effort on Sid.

“Nice out,” Geno said, when the meal was done. “We go sit outside?”

“Sure,” Sid said. He was having a nice time. He wasn’t ready for the evening to be over.

Geno emptied the rest of the wine bottle into Sid’s glass, ignoring Sid’s protests, and took him outside to the swinging bench set up in the yard behind the house. It was nice out, mild still even with the sun sinking behind the trees. Geno stretched one long arm along the back of the bench, stretched his long legs out across the grass. The bench creaked gently as Geno used his feet to rock them back and forth.

Sid felt warm from the wine, and from the way Geno was studying his face, close and fond. Geno wasn’t telling any stories now, and Sid found that he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“Thanks for having me over,” he said finally, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“Thanks for come,” Geno said. His fingers skimmed along the slope of Sid’s shoulder and then away.

When Sid went home, Geno hugged him: not a locker room hug, but an on-ice hug, a celly hug, both of his arms around Sid’s shoulders. Sid closed his eyes and pressed his face against Geno’s neck for one sweet moment, breathing in Geno’s musky cologne.

3. April 9

The evidence piled up. Sid considered keeping a list, but that would mean he was taking it seriously; so instead he kept a mental list. The cologne was on there, because why was Geno wearing cologne to have dinner at home with Sid? And the hug was on there, and the swing. The way Geno started lingering in the locker room to talk with Sid before practice, not about hockey business, but about—nothing, really. He just seemed to want to make Sid laugh. And the way he started texting a lot, like every day, sometimes more than once. There was even another dinner invitation, a week after the first, and another careful, enveloping hug, and that was the point at which Sid had to admit to himself that something was pretty obviously going on.

It wasn’t like he was surprised that Geno liked men—that Geno maybe preferred men. It was an open secret in the organization. He even had a boyfriend for a while, a Russian grad student at Pitt who came to a few team events—always introduced as ‘my good friend,’ but everyone knew. Geno was discreet, but he didn’t hide it. Sid had seen him pick up more times than he could count. He was good at it, confident without being pushy. Geno liked dark-haired men, smaller than he was, out of his league looks-wise. He rarely struck out.

Somehow it had never occurred to Sid before that he was exactly Geno’s type.

He talked to Flower about it, finally, because he didn’t necessarily trust his own perceptions. They went for lunch after practice, and Sid picked at his food until Flower set down his fork with a sigh and said, “What’s on your mind, Sid?”

This conversation had been a lot less awkward when Sid mentally rehearsed it in the shower. “I wanted to, uh. Talk to you about Geno.”

“Yes?” Flower said.

Sid really wanted this to be one of the times that Flower read his mind and spared him the agony of having to spell things out, but the universe wasn’t going to be that kind to him. “Have you noticed, lately—it seems like he’s been kind of, uh. Maybe I’m just imagining things, but I think maybe he’s, um.”

Flower’s eyebrows went up. “Yes?”

“God damn it, Flower, you know what I’m trying to say,” Sid said.

“I really have no idea,” Flower said.

For Christ’s sake. “I feel like maybe he’s been flirting with me,” Sid ground out.

“Oh, that,” Flower said. “Yes, I agree, he’s absolutely flirting with you.”

Sid wanted to kill Flower and then himself. “So what do you think I should do about it?”

“How should I know?” Flower said, and then his face softened, and he said, “You know you don’t need anyone’s permission, right?”

“Sure, I know that,” Sid said.

“Okay,” Flower said. He gave Sid a long hard look. “You have my permission, though, if you need it.”

“Thanks, Flower,” Sid said. He knew he didn’t need permission, but—it was a big step, and if Flower thought he was crazy, maybe he wouldn’t do it.

But Flower didn’t think he was crazy.

They closed out the season with a final road trip, Newark to Toronto to New York. In New York, Sid went down the hall and knocked on Geno’s door, his palms a little sweaty even though he didn’t think there was anything to worry about, not really.

Sid was maybe not entirely straight, and Geno maybe knew it. Sid hadn’t acted on it since some ill-advised experimentation in his early twenties, but Geno had been around for that, and—well, he probably knew. And he knew Sid knew about him, and so—it wasn’t innocent, all of that stuff on Sid’s list. Geno meant something by it.

Geno opened the door. He grinned widely when he saw Sid standing there, but then his smile faded.

“Sid,” he said.

Sid drew in a breath. “Let me take you out to lunch. I—on a date. If you want.”

Geno’s face shifted through confusion and into cautious joy. “When?”

“Now,” Sid said. “If you’re ready.”

“Yes,” Geno said, and Sid waited while he found his wallet and his sunglasses, and then they went down to the lobby to catch a cab.

Sid could never remember much about that meal. It blurred into a golden haze. He remembered laughing a lot, and Geno’s feet bumping against his beneath the very small table. He didn’t have any idea what he ate. He remembered Geno leaning back in his chair and smiling and holding his water glass in front of his mouth like his smile was a secret that he wasn’t ready to share. Sid hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Maybe not ever, not exactly like this.

It was a nice day, and the hotel was only a half-hour walk away. They strolled back slowly, their shoulders bumping, their hands brushing until Sid stuffed his in the pockets of his jacket to remove the temptation. Geno cast him a sly glance and nudged him so hard that he had to grab Sid’s elbow to keep him from tipping off the curb.

“Trying to kill me already, eh,” Sid said.

“Sorry, sorry,” Geno said, patting Sid’s shoulder. “I’m too big, don’t know my own strength.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely it,” Sid said.

Geno bumped him again, more gently. “Surprise you ask me.”

“Oh, uh. Should I not have?” Sid asked.

“No, no,” Geno said. “Very happy you do. Only, I don’t expect. First, it’s fun, you know? Have crush, think about, flirt a little bit. I don’t think you notice. Then—” He glanced at Sid. “Then maybe it’s not so fun. Maybe I start want for real, ask you come over, but still you don’t notice.”

“I noticed,” Sid said, and got to watch Geno duck his head and smile down at his shoes.

Back at the hotel, Sid walked Geno to his door, and then things got kind of awkward, both of them shuffling their feet uncertainly and making eye contact that probably qualified as bashful. It was ridiculous. Sid was too old for this.

Geno sighed, rolled his eyes, and said, “Come in for one minute. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sid said, and when the door closed behind them, Geno pressed Sid against the wall and folded him into a hug.

It was warm and close, and Sid wrapped his arms around Geno’s waist and held on, certain now that it was okay. He turned his head to rest his cheek on Geno’s shoulder.

He felt Geno press a few gentle kisses along his hairline. “Maybe we go slow, okay? I know you kiss boys, but—maybe only kissing?”

“Yeah,” Sid said. “I never—you know.”

“Okay,” Geno said. He made a soft, amused noise, and Sid didn’t have to look at his face to know he was grinning. “Only kiss boys, maybe it’s big change for you to kiss man.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sid said. He pulled back and gave Geno his best unimpressed look.

Geno was grinning. He stroked a thumb along Sid’s cheekbone and said, “After Blue Jackets, then I kiss you.”

Sid narrowed his eyes. He wondered if they could manage a sweep.

4. May 10

The trouble with playoffs was that there was never enough time: not for sleeping, not for practicing or recovering, and certainly not for starting a secret relationship with your alternate. They had a few days after the series against Columbus—not a sweep, but five games was close enough. Geno came over for dinner the day after they closed out that series and kissed Sid for the first time, leaning against the kitchen counter with his hands cupping Sid’s face, their mouths moving together so slow and hot.

Sid drew back at last and licked his lips. “What do I get after the Capitals?”

“Think you get something? You greedy,” Geno said. “Kissing not enough for you?”

“Uh, no,” Sid said.

Geno grinned. “Let me think about.”

What Sid got was a concussion, and Geno pale and worried at his house first thing the next morning, with a bag of Sid’s favorite breakfast pastries; and then he got to lie on the couch with his head in Geno’s lap, and Geno endlessly kissing his forehead and face and murmuring, “Sid, poor head,” and then going off darkly into Russian.

The Capitals took seven hard-fought games. During the final game, Horny scored a clutch backhander for a 2-0 lead early in the third. When the puck went into the net, Geno turned immediately to Sid and opened his arms.

It was an on-ice hug: a hockey hug. But it was also just a hug with Geno, the type of fond embrace Sid could have now whenever he wanted and craved constantly, like now that he had that option he wanted to be wrapped in Geno’s arms at all times. He thought about Geno nonstop, at the grocery store when he saw Geno’s preferred brand of bread on the shelf, at home when he looked again at the fifteen heart emojis Geno had texted him the night before. And it was so easy now to lean against Geno’s chest for just a moment and be close to him, even through all their gear.

Geno leaned over to him afterward, when everyone had settled down on the bench once more, and said, quietly, “I think we win this game.”

They did.

What he got was Geno in his hotel room that night, after they won, and Geno’s hand on his dick, and his on Geno’s, half out of their clothes on the bed and kissing and laughing, giddy with winning and with having each other. Geno went blotchily pink all over before he came, his chest and shoulders all mottled with it, and Sid sat up toward the end, amazed, so he could watch Geno’s eyes squeeze shut and his mouth fall open.

“Stay the night,” he said, when they were cleaning up, and Geno did.

5. May 29

The series against the Senators was a long, boring grind, but somehow they won that one, too, and then it was on to the Predators.

They won the first game. Bones capped it off with an empty netter at the end of the third, and when Sid turned toward Geno on the bench, he knew for sure that Geno would be turning toward him.

Geno yelled something incoherent and pulled Sid against him, sitting on the boards to straddle Sid’s hips and squeeze him close. Sid couldn’t believe how lucky he was, to get to play good hockey with this man beside him, always ready for the next pass, always waiting for Sid to call to him or to lead him out onto the ice.

He went to Geno’s house the next afternoon: not for lunch, not for dinner, but just to hang out. Geno made a pitcher of water with lime slices and spread a blanket on the grass in the back yard, under the shade of a tree. They sprawled together and watched game tape on Sid’s tablet until Geno, predictably, fell asleep. And then Sid just watched him sleep for a while, feeling a little creepy but not enough to deter him from it. Geno’s face was so animated when he was awake, constantly shifting from one expression to the next, but in sleep he was peaceful. He looked younger. He looked tired, but they were all tired, this deep into the playoffs.

He looked like someone Sid wanted to keep beside him for a long time.

1. June 8

Game 5 was a 6-0 blowout. Sid got three points; Geno got a Gordie Howe hat trick.

“You’re a fucking menace,” Sid told him in the locker room afterward.

“Me?” Geno asked, all innocence. “What I do? Get two points, score goal—”

“Fight Josi,” Sid said.

“Only roughing!” Geno said. “Everyone fight, Haggy, Dales—”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Daley said.

“Fight Josi,” Geno muttered to himself, and stomped off to the shower.

Sid grinned. Geno was way too easy to rile up.

He riled him up even more in the parking deck. It was late and dark, they were two of the last people at the arena, and Geno only put up a token protest when Sid shoved him up against the driver’s side door of his stupid sports car and kissed him. Geno spread his legs and slouched down and Sid could feel him getting hard inside his suit pants, and they were being really dumb and Sid didn’t want to stop.

“You turn me on so much,” he said, kissing frantically at Geno’s neck, sucking kisses above the collar of his shirt. “You were so good tonight, you—”

“You first star,” Geno said, his voice rough, and he used his grip on Sid’s ass to pull him in a little tighter.

“Okay,” Sid said at last, tearing himself away. “Okay. Fuck. Okay. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go back to my place.”

“What I get?” Geno asked. His eyes were half-lidded. His mouth was wet and swollen. His ugly mustache was wet with spit.

“I bet I can think of something,” Sid said.

#drawerfic amnesty #ficlet

[ubourgeois]

Top 30 Films of 2018

I’m actually getting one of these out at a fairly reasonable time! I’m a champion.

Compared to last year, I would say 2018 had fewer films that I really loved, that shook me and immediately registered as important - but also, more films that have grown on me over time, that were clever and inventive in ways that convince me to look past their shortcomings (or reevaluate if they are shortcomings at all). Plenty of odd, perhaps imperfect movies made it far up the list, and I think I ended up privileging that weird streak more than usual this year. But hopefully that makes for interesting reading here.

I found making this list that a couple of the big arthousey hits of the year (Eighth Grade, Burning, The Rider, and others) ended up slipping into the basement of the top 50. Keep an eye out for a rejoinder post following this in a couple days where I hash out my thoughts on those. For now, top 30 after the jump:

30. Unsane dir. Steven Soderbergh

Remember when Tangerine came out and everyone was like, “wow I can’t believe this was shot on an iPhone” and it was a whole thing? Well, I can believe that Unsane was shot on an iPhone, and that’s really for the better. Ever the innovator, Soderbergh follows Sean Baker’s lead by taking full advantage of the logistical advantages and distinctive appearances of iPhone-shot footage, putting together a film that uses its hardware not as a flashy obstacle to be overcome but as a driver of its look and feel, proving at least for now that mobile-shot films are viable (though we’ll see how his next one turns out). The film itself is good too - Claire Foy gives a wonderfully prickly performance, and the claustrophobic visuals make for a great psychological thriller.

29. Cold War dir. Paweł Pawlikowski

Expanding on the aesthetic territory he explored with Ida, Pawlikowski brings another black & white, Polish-language period piece about identities split between different (religious, political) worlds. Cold War is the more complicated and perhaps less focused film, but also the more alluring one, with a luscious love story, incredible music (Łojojoj...), and great, showy performances from Joanna Kulig and Tomasz Kot. In other words, it’s luxurious, romantic Euro-arthouse fare. Probably best watched with a full glass of wine in hand.

28. Ready Player One dir. Steven Spielberg

A film that many accused of “pandering” to audiences for its many blink-and-you’ll-miss-it nods to 80s nostalgia and gaming culture, Ready Player One was on the contrary seemingly uninterested in anything of the sort. It managed to accomplish something more meaningful by packing the film so dense with nerd-bait that it becomes just texture and noise - Tracer popping up in the background of random scenes ends up being less of Overwatch reference and more of a piece of plausible set dressing in a VR social media hub. This contributed to RPO being not only a technically impressive but a visually overwhelming effects film, packaged around a seemingly knowing 80s blockbuster pastiche (the story, the character types, even the music cues were too old-fashioned to be on purpose). A film both smarter and easier to like than the discourse around it suggested.

27. Widows dir. Steve McQueen

I do really wish that McQueen would go back to making demanding, brutal films like Hunger, but if he simply has to become a commercial filmmaker I guess I don’t mind this. Surely the ensemble film of the year, with the entire cast firing on all cylinders - Daniel Kaluuya as the sadistic enforcer/campaign manager in particular impresses, though naturally Viola Davis, Elizabeth Debicki, Cynthia Erivo, and even Colin Farrell make for compelling characters in this twisty, nervy heist film. The action scenes are all impressively mounted (if a bit few and far between) and there are enough McQueen-esque florishes to keep things interesting in the interim (that long car scene!). Great moody popcorn stuff.

26. An Elephant Sitting Still dir. Hu Bo

Elephant has gotten a lot of press for two reasons: its nearly four-hour length and its director’s untimely death shortly after its completion. The length is important because it beats you into submission, forcing you to accept its rhythm and smothering you in tight focus on its main characters until you feel like it’s your own POV (I wasn’t really into it until, uh, the two hour mark, but then somehow I was hooked). Hu Bo’s death is important because knowing that, the sensation of being trapped, pressured, and disoriented by the Current State of China (ever the popular subject matter) feels all the more palpable and, maybe unfortunately, grants the film some extra layer of authority, or at least urgency. If I ever have the time or energy, I would love to revisit this film - I expect it will one day be seen as a landmark.

25. Make Me Up dir. Rachel Maclean

A bizarre little bit of sugary pop-feminist techno-dystopia, pulling off a sort of cinematic cousin to vaporwave by way of Eve Ensler. What unfolds is pretty insane, involving dance numbers, incomprehensible lectures on dodgy gender politics, and sets that look pulled out from a cheap children’s TV show. It’s definitely a marmite film - how well you connect with this will depend heavily on your tolerance for clearly-fake CG, well-trodden feminist talking points, and pastels - but for those with the appetite for this brand of political kitsch then this is just about the best version of itself imaginable. 

24. Liz and the Blue Bird dir. Naoko Yamada

Naoko Yamada out Naoko Yamada-s herself. A standalone spinoff of Hibike! Euphonium that focuses on members of the secondary cast, Liz makes good on the sensitive, subtly-executed love story that the show ultimately failed to produce (not quite Adolescence of Utena-tier course correction, but we’ll take it). This is a film propelled by the tiniest gestures - a hand tensing behind the back, a nervous flicker of the eye, a cheerful bounce in the step - in that way animation can provide that seems not incidental but hugely, blatantly filled with meaning. While A Silent Voice was a great breakthrough for Yamada as an “original” feature, it’s Liz that feels like the more mature film, and a promising indicator for what lies ahead.

23. Sew the Winter to My Skin dir. Jahmil X.T. Qubeka

Maybe the most surprising film of the year is this, an action-biopic about John Kepe, a South African Robin Hood figure, that almost entirely eschews spoken dialogue in favor of visual storytelling, physical acting, and clever audio design. But this is not some pretentious, austere arthouse film substituting gimmicks for actual character; Sew the Winter to My Skin is an engaging, fascinating, and unexpectedly accessible historical epic, prioritizing mythic bigness over simple recitation of fact. While it demands some patience at first (with no dialogue, it takes a bit for the film to properly introduce its cast), it quickly shows itself to be an inventive, exciting, and occasionally funny adventure that proves Qubeka as a truly exciting voice in South African cinema.

22. Mom and Dad dir. Brian Taylor

Forget Mandy, THIS is the crazy Nic Cage movie of the year. A slick, rapid-fire horror comedy that feels almost like a music video at points, Mom and Dad has what’s surely Cage’s best unhinged performance in years as well as a great, more restrained turn by Selma Blair. The violence is ludicrous, the premise is nutty, and the sense of humor is utterly sick - that the film manages to squeeze out a surprisingly coherent commentary on suburban family life on top of this is a minor miracle (a scene where Cage destroys a pool table proves strangely thoughtful). For all the broadly acclaimed “serious” horror films in recent years, like this year’s kind of boring Hereditary, groan-filled A Quiet Place, and mostly incoherent Suspiria, I more appreciate this breed of deranged, funny, and tightly focused effort. It doesn’t need to be that deep.

21. Good Manners dir. Marco Dutra, Juliana Rojas

I’m going to mark this write-up with a **spoiler warning**, as I think it’s basically impossible to talk about this film without giving the game away. Good Manners has one of the best genre switcheroos in recent years, starting off as a proper Brazilian class drama (think Kleber Mendonça Filho) with a lesbian twist before explosively transforming into a horror movie that reveals a hidden monster-coming-of-age story that’s nearly unrecognizable as the same film from an hour before. As delightful as this bit of narrative sleight of hand is, it can’t justify a good film alone, which is where the great lead performance by Isabél Zuaa and the mesermizing, inventive matte paintings of the São Paulo skyline come into play, making this fantastical, genre-bending film a true original of the year.

20. The Miseducation of Cameron Post dir. Desiree Akhavan

There’s a tendency in the queer teen film genre to sometimes drift towards miserablist portrayals of growing up; to emphasize the hardship, nonunderstanding, and isolation to the expense of other experiences. Cameron Post manages to avoid this path even as it explores the dreadful premise of life in a conversion camp by balancing the solidarity, humor, and defiant joy hidden along the edges of the camp experience with the cruel, dehumanizing nature of the place. The film works, then, not only as a statement against conversion therapy and the real harm it does to all participants, but also as a lively, triumphant teen movie that feels more powerful than the lazy, doom-and-gloom approach.

19. Minding the Gap dir. Bing Liu

Few films capture the particular small city Midwest atmosphere quite like this one, a very raw documentary that feels very much like the first feature it is - but in a good way. Cut together from years of Liu’s amateur footage as well as new material of its subjects (the director and two of his old friends), a documentary that at first seems to be about the local skateboarding culture stretches out to many other topics: domestic violence, race relations, middle-American economic anxiety. The film, perhaps because of its closeness to the director and his relative inexperience, manages to take on a quick-moving scattershot approach, weaving stream-of-consciousness from one topic to the next, while still giving each the time and weight it deserves. 

18. The Green Fog dir. Evan Johnson, Galen Johnson, Guy Maddin

A hard film to sum up, though at its heart not a terribly complicated one. Ostensibly a very loose reconstruction of Vertigo using clips from other material shot in San Francisco, from The Conversation to San Andreas to Murder, She Wrote, this new, uh, thing from Maddin and the Johnsons is a short, sweet, and really quite funny collage less interested in slavishly reenacting its inspiration than making funny jokes with movie clips. Some highlights include Rock Hudson carefully watching an *NSYNC music video on a tiny screen, a long sequence admiring Chuck Norris’ face that doesn’t seem to match any particular part of Vertigo, and a number of scenes of dialogue with all the speech cut out, leaving only awkward pauses and mouth noises. It’s high art!

17. Sorry to Bother You dir. Boots Riley

Boots Riley’s transition from long-standing underrated rapper to breakout auteur has been wild to witness. Sorry to Bother You is certainly one of 2018′s most original and distinctive films (what other film is it like, exactly?), and any complaints about unsubtle politics or overpacked narrative can be easily counterbalanced with the film’s sheer verve and oddball energy. Like Widows, it’s another of the great ensemble pieces of the year - Lakeith Stanfield and Tess Thompson are great as usual, and of the supporting cast Armie Hammer emerges as the standout with an incredibly funny halfway-villainous turn, plus a great bit of voice casting with David Cross. Leading candidate for this year’s Film of the Moment.

16. Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse dir. Robert Persichetti Jr., Peter Ramsey, Rodney Rothman

The problem with comic book movies a lot of the time is that they’re somehow too embarrassed to own their source material. Into the Spider-Verse succeeds because it emphatically embraces its roots, not only visually (the cel shading, impact lines, and even text boxes that make up the film’s look) but also narratively, by adopting the multiverse concept in earnest and milking it for comedic and dramatic effect. It’s an incredibly innovative (not to mention gorgeous) animated film that not only raises the standard but expands the scope of superhero films, giving new hope to a genre that has been stuck spinning its wheels for years. Plus, it has probably the only post-credits scene actually worth the effort, which is a very special sort of victory.

15. Museo dir. Alonso Ruizpalacios

A playful, thoughtful heist film that gets the actual heist out of the way as soon as possible. Two suburban twenty-somethings pull off a daring robbery of Mayan artifacts from the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City, then set off on an ill-fated roadtrip to fence the goods. There’s a certain magic to this film, in its approach that is at once totally reverent and mythologizing but also eager to take the piss out of everything (the recurring motif of Revueltas’ The Night of the Mayas suite does both), and in how it turns this story into something of a love letter to the history and geography of Mexico. Very mature, well-balanced filmmaking in Ruizpalacios’ second feature.

14. BlacKkKlansman dir. Spike Lee

The best Spike Lee joint in a long, long time. It taps into the freewheeling, confrontational energy of his best work, but almost as a career victory lap as he makes a game out of outfoxing Klan members. There’s plenty of humor and tension here, with a great, dry leading duo in John David Washington and Adam Driver, and a funny turn from Topher Grace (!) as David Duke. Even if it does play it a bit safe with an easy target and wraps up a bit too easily (a quick flash-forward to Charlottesville as a postscript notwithstanding), it should be fine, I think, for a film to indulge in the simple pleasure of overcoming obvious villains in a glorious fashion. For all the recent films that give nuanced and serious takes on racism in America, one ought to be about the joy of blowing up the KKK.

13. Mirai dir. Mamoru Hosoda

Since he’s started making original features, Hosoda has been taken with relatively high-concept storylines, from his “debut” The Girl Who Leapt Through Time to Wolf Children, but Mirai is certainly his most ambitious yet. Nearly every choice about the film is a bit weird: from the unusual, compact layout of Kun’s home to Kun’s very believable, nearly alienating (to an older audience) childish behavior to the simply bizarre logistics and metaphysics of Kun’s fantastic adventures. The time- and space-travel antics Kun and Mirai get up to never seem entirely literal or entirely imagined, somewhere between childish fable and psychological sci-fi, a mixture that culminates in a surprisingly existential climax for an unabashed children’s film. After the quite safe The Boy and the Beast, it’s exciting to see Hosoda branch out into such a complicated and strange project, certainly the most daring animated feature of the year.

12. Support the Girls dir. Andrew Bujalski

A bubbly, sensitive, and lightly anarchic workplace comedy in that most essential of American institutions: the Hooters-flavored sports bar off the highway. Bujalski continues to prove himself an observant and funny writer, putting together a fascinating ensemble of characters brought to life by a perfectly-cast ensemble (Regina Hall is flawless as advertised, and Haley Lu Richardson brings us one of the most adorable characters in cinema). I don’t think I’ve seen a more charming film about workers’ solidarity and the lively communities that find their niche in liminal spaces. 

11. First Reformed dir. Paul Schrader

Edgy priests are in a certain way low-hanging fruit; the tension is automatic, the contradiction inherently compelling. It’s a lazy symbol that can be milked for cheap profundity when employed, if you will, in bad faith. That’s why it’s so important that First Reformed, for all of its alcoholic, violent, libidinous angst packed into Ethan Hawke’s (masterfully interpreted) character, is also a great, genuine film about faith besides. It’s a Revelations film if I’ve ever seen one, about facing down the apocalypse with no way of understanding God’s plan, about living on the precipice of a collapse of belief, about accepting mystery. It’s the only film I saw this year that communicated actual dread, but even then still, somehow, bizarrely hopeful. 

10. Birds of Passage dir. Cristina Gallego, Ciro Guerra

Ciro Guerra (now with partner Cristina Gallego co-directing) follows up the excellent Embrace of the Serpent with another powerful portrait of an indigenous community that, under the pressure of colonial influence, gradually devours itself. In the new film, however, this takes the form of a traditional gangster film, from the humble beginnings and runaway success to the explosions of violence and crumbling of an empire. Birds of Passage shows the origins of the Colombian drug trade with the native Wayuu people (a counterpoint, Gallego explains, to the much-celebrated Pablo Escobar narrative), and in doing so still finds room to organically and respectfully depict the traditions of the Wayuu, as well as showcase their beautiful language, which makes up much of the film’s dialogue. Best film in the genre since at least Carlos. 

09. The Favourite dir. Yorgos Lanthimos

Though I really admire Dogtooth, I’ve found myself increasingly disappointed in Lanthimos’ output since that film. Alps was fine but clearly minor; The Lobster started strong but fizzled out; Killing of a Sacred Deer was ultimately too self-consciously bizarre. With The Favourite, we’re finally back in exciting, unsettlingly weird territory, Yorgos having found that his very mannered style of English dialogue works superbly in a costume drama context. He also gets great, uncharacteristically emotive performances (compared to, say, the last two Colin Farrell outings) out of his central trio of Olivia Colman, Rachel Weisz, and Emma Stone, with especially great work coming from Stone, who I think has discovered that all of her best roles take full advantage of the fact that she looks like a cartoon character. It’s wonderfully perverse, incredibly funny stuff, with one of the great, inexplicable endings of the year - fair to call it a Buñuel revival.

08. Bisbee ‘17 dir. Robert Greene

A documentary that tackles a shocking forgotten chapter in American labor history - a group of strikers deported from their mining town and left for dead in the desert - as well as the potential of historical reenactment to act as communal therapy. Greene moves a bit sideways from his usual performance-centric subject matter to show a different kind of performance meant not to affect the audience but the performers themselves, breaking through decades of near-silence on Bisbee’s tumultuous small town history. It’s also a remarkably multi-faceted film; though it would certainly be easy to side fully with the strikers, Greene makes sure to document the perspectives of current Bisbee citizens who sympathize with or even celebrate the decision to deport, complicating the emotions and politics of the reenactment in genuinely interesting ways. A powerful, important documentary.

07. Asako I & II dir. Ryusuke Hamaguchi

Unwieldy and annoying English title aside (especially considering all the possible translations of Netemo Sametemo), Asako seems on the surface like nothing more than a cheap TV romance. It hits many of the same beats and adopts much of the visual style associated with this vein of visual media, particularly in the music video-esque, almost-supernatural meet-cute that opens the film. But hidden beneath these affectations is a shockingly cold un-romance, a story with an inevitable bad end that you’re tricked into thinking might not come to pass. By employing so many stylistic and even verbal cliches, Hamaguchi reveals how these internalized these storytelling devices are, and how they not only can’t prepare us for the complications of actual relationships, but even shift our expectations away from reality. It’s an absolute gut-punch of a film, covered in a seductively sweet carapace. 

06. Sweet Country dir. Warwick Thornton

In a fairly large shift from his previous Samson and Delilah, Thornton has put together one of the best and most unusual Westerns in recent years. Featuring great, earthy performances from its nonprofessional cast (plus a bit of Sam Neill and Bryan Brown for good measure) and a weird, almost Malicky flash-forward structure, the film explores a not-widely-depicted history of exploitation of indigenous Australians. It’s a sad film, showing a fairly exciting lead-up to a somewhat deflating moment of unjust violence - but of course, many of the best Westerns aren’t about good triumphing, either. It’s the film on this list that most grew on me over the course of the year, having not impressed me at first but then blowing me away on a second viewing. 

05. Leave No Trace dir. Debra Granik

For all the buzz surrounding Winter’s Bone - a film that still holds up after so many years - it’s a bit surprising that it took Granik eight years to put out a follow-up, but I guess it’s worth the wait. Unlike Bone, Leave No Trace is a kind, gentle film, leaving behind the edgy Ozarkian drama of its predecessor for a similar but more forgiving setting of woodland communities in the Pacific Northwest. It initially seduces you with Ben Foster’s outdoorsy survivalist lifestyle, cut off by seemingly uncaring state officials, but gradually revealing, through the second thoughts of his daughter (Thomasin McKenzie, in a shall we say Lawrencian turn), the downsides and flawed motivations for their lifestyle choice. It’s a quiet and thoughtful film, melancholy and optimistic in equal measure. Makes one hope Granik can get another project off the ground sooner. 

04. Roma dir. Alfonso Cuarón

I mean, what else can we say about Roma? It’s about as good as claimed, beautifully shot, framed, written, acted, whatever. It’s at its best, sort of ironically, when Cuarón breaks up the quiet personal drama for some of his characteristic action-y set pieces (a Children of Men-esque protest sequence and the climax on the beach are particularly memorable), but he also shows his talent in handling relatively uneventful family scenes, using the layout of the house to facilitate some surprisingly interesting camera movements. I’m happy that Cuarón, who could easily transition into a more boring prestige Hollywood filmmaker if he so chose, is using his industry clout to pull together neat little films like this. 

03. The Old Man & the Gun dir. David Lowery

What a completely pleasant film. A film that walks a dangerous tightrope - one of nostalgia, roguish charm, and incessant aw-shucks optimism - that can easily fall into twee, navel-gazing hell, but that miraculously pulls it off, resulting in a genuinely spirit-lifting character study of an almost folkloric figure. Robert Redford’s good in this, but of course he is - that’s the whole point. Perhaps more appropriate to say that this film is good for Robert Redford, that it rises to the occasion of celebrating his career in full and pulls it off without appearing trite or disposable. As good a (reportedly) final outing as anyone could ask for.

02. I Do Not Care If We Go Down in History as Barbarians dir. Radu Jude

A nearly three-hour, densely conversational, nakedly didactic examination of the historical effects and contemporary sources of fascism and ethnic nationalism that somehow flies right by. Radu Jude, a relative latecomer to Romanian cinema’s rise to international prominence, makes a strong argument for being his country’s best and most important filmmaker, taking on complicated, controversial, and infrequently discussed subject matter about Romania’s troubled past. If you can get past Barbarians’ sort of user-unfriendly exterior (Iona Iacob opens the film by introducing herself and explaining her character, which tells you the sort of thing you’re getting into), it should prove to be a remarkably stimulating and even fiendishly funny ride. 

01. Shoplifters dir. Hirokazu Koreeda

If you’ve spent the ten years since Still Walking wondering what exactly Koreeda is trying to do anymore, then this is your answer. He’s spent most of the last decade pumping out the same nonconventional family drama over and over again (everything from I Wish to After the Storm, at least) so he could hone his skills like a weapon and create the perfect, ultimate version. With a pitch-perfect cast (Koreeda regulars Lily Franky and Kirin Kiki are the standouts, but Sakura Ando, Mayu Matsuoka, and the two child actors more than hold their own), and probably the perfect expression of the chosen family, spots and all, that has consumed much of Koreeda’s career, Shoplifters is one of its director’s career-best films, showcasing all of his talent for depicting delicate, intimate moments and bringing smart, complex ideas to seemingly straightforward premises. The most exciting Palme d’Or winner in years and easily the best film of 2018.

#film #best of 2018 #shoplifters #roma #the old man and the gun #leave no trace #i do not care if we go down in history as barbarians #birds of passage #the favourite #sweet country #bisbee 17 #asako i & ii #support the girls #mirai #first reformed #museo #blackkklansman #the green fog #sorry to bother you #spiderman into the spiderverse #minding the gap #the miseducation of cameron post #liz and the blue bird #make me up #sew the winter to my skin #good manners #mom and dad #an elephant sitting still #ready player one #unsane

[valiantbarnes]

I was in the back seat of the car the other day, headphones in, music quiet. 

‘I wonder what the divorce rates would be,’ my aunt says, ‘compared to normal couples.’ She doesn’t emphasise the word ‘normal’, that happens inside my own head, italicised and underlined, a giant marker that this conversation is something I probably don’t want to accidentally overhear. (I’m right, incidentally; I don’t want to hear it. I should have turned the volume up.) She’s not intentionally cruel, doesn’t mean to other me with her curiosity, her idle chat about the upcoming vote, doesn’t even know that I’m not-normal, sitting half a metre away.

‘What the actual fuck does that even matter?’ is what I want to say. I would want to say it loudly, scathingly. Why should divorce rates matter for queer couples, when it doesn’t for straight. A small part of me wants to question her own divorce, whether what had been an unthinkable outcome when she’d gotten married should have barred her from the institution completely. But she’s not intentionally cruel, doesn’t know that I’m so close and aching in that dull way I’m so accustomed to. And maybe she’s curious because she’s divorced, rather than turning a critical eye towards my entire community.

I don’t know, because I don’t say anything. Don’t even mutter under my breath, like the teenager I once was. I bite my tongue, and listen to the conversation play out, before turning the volume up so loud my phone chirps with an automated warning, ‘do not listen at high volume levels for long periods.’ 

‘I’m just so sick of it!’ My nan says, listening to the radio, the same station she’s listened to for years; the same vaugly pleasant, droning male voice for as long as I can remember. I don’t listen to his actual words, because I’m pretty sure we disagree on just about everything. I try not to think to hard about what this says about my nanna’s opinions in relation to mine. Three and a half white wines me is able to handle it better. Three and a half white wines me is much better at smooth conversational transitions.

I agree with my nan, because I’m sick of it too. Tired of it. Tired of hearing friends and family debating whether or not my friends, the people I chat with on facebook, my found family, some hypothetical version of myself who’s happily partnered, should be allowed to marry. 

Tired of thinking - about everything, really. About how sometimes I’m lulled into a false sense of security, thinking that the acceptance and love I feel from my found family is able to extend further. About how many people hate me - vocally, viscerally, hate me. Hate you. Hate us. About how maybe things are getting better, I mean, no one’s tried to throw something at me because I look like a queer in at least few months-

Think about that, if you will. I try not to, but you can. Maybe it you’re reading this, and you’re straight, think about being on one of your Very First Dates Ever. It’s Special. (You’re pretty sure it’s going great, by the way. You’ve been holding hands for entire minutes, and now you’re sitting close, shoulders touching, heads bent together, smiling.) Something wet impacts against the back of your head, hard. 

I keep my mouth shut and my head down, and pray to god that nothing rocks the boat.

‘It’s inconveniencing the majority of the population for the minority. Ridiculous. I wish they’d shut up about it.’ Nan’s voice is waspish, now, and I’m so tired. We didn’t want this plebecite either. I don’t even want to get married. And yet there are posters screaming the word faggot in Melbourne, ads on tv practically begging, ‘won’t somebody please think of the children!’

I think about the conversation I had with my teenaged cousin, where I tried to let her know that if she likes women, that’s perfectly fine - all the while never mentioning the fact that I’m queer; bisexual and bigendered and crushingly afraid of what she’d say if she knew. Isn’t this supposed to go away, once you’re in your twenties? Maybe I thought it’d go something like this: once you turn twenty you stop being afraid that everyone you love will disown you for your sexuality, your gender. I guess I’m hoping for thirty, now. 

After I tiptoed around the topic - my cousin giving me this look, her eyes shouting that she’s ready to be not having this awkward conversation whenever I’m ready - I got to my main point, slightly too loud.

‘It’s okay if you’re a lesbian. or. just. like women. or anyone.’ Imaging my voice getting slightly louder with each full stop. My body trying to silence me, because what if this is the last clue that she needs, the last piece of some queer jigsaw puzzle that’ll shout bisexual! bigender! I like to think I’m unashamed of who I am, unapologetic. I don’t try to hide it, usually. Not at uni, or work, or on the internet. But here I am, in a kitchen that I’ve known all my life, with a girl I’ve known all her life. Afraid.

My younger brother’s mate made a joke the other weekend, the four of us sitting on picnic benches, alternately seeking the shade and the sun as the wind wound around us. His friend’s girlfriend mentioned quizzing everyone in sight about ‘the vote’ the previous week. All three of them looked at me, and my brother smiled first, my own smile half a second behind.

‘What do you think about gay marriage?’ She asked, and my brother’s chuckling now, because he knows. Of course he knows, how could he not know - how could anyone not know? - because I tried to hide it and I was terrible and he saw straight (ha) through me and it’s incredible to me that he’s one of only four people in my entire family who know. I don’t think - I know - he doesn’t know what a big deal that is. I don’t think he’s ever thought about it. It’s just who I am.

I make a circling gesture. At my hair cut, my clothes, the smirk on my face - my entire body. ‘Take a guess,’ I tell her, and she laughs as well. 

‘She’s a yes vote,’ my brother says, because that’s a secret that’s kept so close to my heart that only five people I know - out of the hundreds and hundreds of people I’ve ever met, befriended, laughed with - know. I’ll tell him, eventually. Probably. Maybe. Gender’s not that scary, surely. Just another part of who I am - and he’s seemed pretty accepting of the rest of me, the previous twenty years of his life. It’s not that hard.

Whenever I think about telling him, my throat does that thing again. Tight. Uncomfortable. Afraid. 

‘Bisexual,’ I add, because I can, because my brother already knows, because what does my brother’s friends girlfriend really mean to me, in the grand scheme of my life? So much less than my aunt, my cousin, my nanna. My dad. And that, there, is a fear that I’ve carried so deep within my chest, for over a decade now.

I swore my mother to secrecy, made her promise to never, ever tell him. I was crying when I did, because I knew with every fibre of my twelve year old body, that he would hate me forever. I don’t know if she kept her promise. We don’t talk about it.

The four of us joke back and forth, and my brother’s friend says, ‘She probably brings in more girls than you do, ay?’ And my little brother, who’s next to me, who’s in the shade and not in the sun, who has his eyes open and cheeky, carries the joke,

‘Yeah, she’s got girls in and out of her window all night,’ he laughs, and I laugh, and they laugh, and this uncomplicated acceptance towards me is all the more profound for how simple it is. How easy it feels. 

My father sits back down at the table, laden with snacks, because my brother and I always make him go buy them, even though we’re both adults. He sits back down, and the other three are still joking, maybe. Still laughing, maybe. I don’t know. There’s a lead ball where my stomach used to be. I feel it again now, writing this. Remembering the way I swallowed convulsively, throat tight, head fuzzy with panic. 

I don’t know what drink I got, or the snack. Chips maybe. The only thought in my head was whether he’d been close enough to hear. If my brother had made any gestures towards me, had indicated that I was the “she” in question. If he knew, now, after a decade of caution. If he hated me. 

I don’t meet his eyes for hours. I wish I was exaggerating for effect. I looked at his large, calloused hands, the greying patch in his scruffy beard. His left earlobe, where three piercings are long since closed over. The trees. My brother, his friends. Latched on to anything that would keep my attention away from dad. I don’t want to look at him. Don’t want to know, one way or the other. 

I want to say something to my brother, drag him away and shout at him, shake him, show him how my hands are shaking - shaking still as I write this - but I don’t. Can’t. Can’t do anything but smile with eyes too wide, too wild, and watch as my brother raises his eyebrows at me, a nonverbal, ‘you good?’

He doesn’t ask out loud, because that’s not how we do things. I’m not even sure if my brother’s ever heard me call myself bisexual before. We don’t speak to each other seriously. Don’t use our words for anything but joking, and I don’t know how to use my face to give an answer he probably wouldn’t be able to understand, even if I managed to unblock my throat.

Can someone tell me how to use body language to express - I think you just outed me, I’m terrified, I’m nauseas, I want to go home and cry and rewind time. 

It’s about an hour in the car with my dad, on the way home. I somehow make conversation that isn’t DO YOU KNOW I’M QUEER DO YOU HATE ME NOW DID YOU ALREADY KNOW IS THAT WHY YOU LAUGHED TOO DO YOU STILL NOT KNOW WHY DID YOU LAUGH I LIKE WOMEN I BROKE UP WITH MY GIRLFRIEND BECAUSE I WAS TOO AFRAID TO BRING HER HOME PLEASE DON’T HATE ME I ALREADY HATE MYSELF ENOUGH DO YOU KNOW WHO I ACTUALLY AM I’M SO QUEER, SO GAY, SO BISEXUAL AND BIGENDERED AND EVERY WORD YOU’VE EVER SAID ABOUT THE LGBTQI COMMUNITY IS BRANDED INTO MY BRAIN DO YOU HATE ME NOW-

This was supposed to be short. Quick. I would say I didn’t realise how much was weighing on my mind, but that’s a lie. There’s more left to say, but it’s just about five on a Wednesday morning, and this is already almost two thousand words. I’m angry that the plebecite, this voluntary postal vote, is going ahead. That people who have nothing to do with my life, with my friends lives, get to debate this issue in a public forum. Get to debate about what happens in our lives at all, get to talk about it in such a distant, removed way.

Unless they’re the ones who get angry and disgusted that we even exist, of course. And there are more of those sorts of people than I really want to think about.

I wish I had enough anger to combat everything. I don’t. I used to. It’s been smothered, month after month, year after year. Sometimes on purpose, because otherwise I’d forget to keep quiet. I’d be three and a half glasses of white wine in and my tongue would get loose, and suddenly I’m embroiled in a discussion that I don’t know how to be impartial about. How can I hide the fact that I care so much about these issues because they’re my issues. I’m not a third party, I’m not playing devil’s advocate. I’m involved and I’m emotional and I don’t know how to divorce myself from either of those facts.

And I used to be so angry, I’d forget so much and then, later - after another question of whether or not I had a boyfriend yet, there’d be the sly follow up, ‘or a girlfriend,’ sharp eyes watching. Are your eyes that sharp because you’re waiting for me to slip up, or because I’m paranoid? I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now.

I wish I could say there’s some catharsis to writing this, but there’s not. There’s only the sensation of hair standing on end, unsteady hands, a feeling I can’t quite describe lodged somewhere between my sternum and stomach. You might know the feeling, it might have a name. It’s heavy, and nauseating, and it’s a complicated web of love and self-hatred and shame and love.

The truth will set you free might be applicable here, I suppose. Whether it would free me from an ache I’ve carried almost half my life, or from my family, is the question. And it’s not a question I’m willing to ask.

TL;DR: I’m sad and queer and just want the postal vote re: gay marriage over and all the conversations straight people and my family are having about it to happen far, far away from me.

#postal plebiscite #auspol #kinda #marriage equality #queer thoughts #al talks #look it's 5am and i am tired and queer and sad #which is the perfect time to post about my thoughts