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docockbrainrot · 3 years

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i think i want you (to leave)

Summary: We’re all running from something. Sometimes, metaphorically. Sometimes, literally. Literally running, from the very strangely hypnotizing supervillain that seems hellbent on ruining every bit of your life he can get all eight of his limbs on.

Pairing: Doc Ock X Reader/ Otto Octavius X Reader

Content: Slow Burn, NSFW eventually, 18+

AO3 link here.

Previous Chapter

Chapter 5

anathema// former vandal

The next several days are an uneventful blur. You barely leave your apartment, except for brief dog walks and grabbing food from the bodega across the street.

It’s 9 pm on Saturday and you’re fresh out of the shower, tucked away in a very fuzzy robe, lounging on the couch and watching YouTube on your television. You almost miss the subtle taptaptaptap sound coming from your window, you're so engrossed in the cooking show you’ve been binging. Gotta fill the void somehow, right?

You can’t see anything outside from where you’re sitting. The lights are on and make it impossible to peer through the reflections on the glass. Maybe it’s a bird. Or a branch is caught on the fire escape. Either way, you certainly can’t be assed to check it out and you take another sip of your chamomile tea- you’ve been trying everything under the sun, just about short of literally snorting lines of melatonin, to try to sleep better at night. Nothing’s been working. But you have been making a very valiant effort.

A few moments go by and you forget all about the window disturbance until,

TAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAP.

It’s jarring. It’s loud. Above all else, it’s annoying. Chekov spares you a look, like you’re the one making a racket. Effectively exasperated, you make an effort to set, not slam, down your mug, feeling decidedly not Calm and Relaxed as the tea promised. Suppose it’s not miracle shit though, is it? You would not be a good candidate for a horror movie because you fearlessly storm over to the window and throw it open (it wasn’t locked in the first place; you’re quite terrible at remembering to). You stick your head out and glower at whatever irritating mischief is happening out here, ready to rip the fire escape off the side of the brick building.

You’re greeted by something cold and hard (and indubiously metal, judging by how it felt against your sternum) shoving you back into your apartment, sending you sprawling unceremoniously to the hardwood floor. A string of profanities ready to leave your tongue, you sit up and adjust your robe in an attempt to preserve a modicum of your modesty. The rant dies in your throat as red eyed claws grip the threshold of your pre-war window and it’s almost comical the way He maneuvers himself in, far too large to be making these sorts of entrances. Standing up to his full height before you while you’re still sitting dumbfounded on the floor reminds you of just how impressively built he is. You manage to pick your jaw up, but your ass remains firmly planted on the wood.

“Uh… you could have just used the buzzer, dude. I have a front door, you know,” you sputter out, brain blitzing in pretty much every way possible. Your thoughts are racing and eventually they settle on the most important thing you can think to ask in that moment: “... Why aren’t you wearing a shirt.” You can't help the way your eyes are drawn to his broad chest, gaze lingering on the vast scarring that spills out from the metal contraption clamped around his midsection.

Otto very graciously closes the window behind himself. Or at least his little robot accomplices do it for him. You still aren’t sure what’s going on with that- the whole AI thing. Not even a blip on your radar of concerns at this point. “Didn’t want anyone to see me come in. Your building has a camera on the front, facing the street.”

“That’s why you’re shirtless?” You ask dumbly. Interesting method of camouflage. “What? No- what? It doesn’t matter- listen to me. I need you to do something for me. A small favor.”

He doesn’t seem to notice the compromised position he put you in. Typical. Gathering up your broken pride, you get up and tighten the tie of your robe a bit. It isn’t until then that he has the decency to look a smidge embarrassed and you hope you didn't just give him a free show on your way to getting to your feet. “You literally just broke into my apartment and now you’re asking for a favor? We barely know each other!”

“Less complicated when there's nothing personal involved yet, plus- you let me in,” he corrects you. You wish he would stop doing that. You wish he would stop meeting with you like this, under weird and mysterious circumstances. Even though it's only been like twice. You're already over it.

“You threw me across the room!”

“Touche.”

Otto does not apologize and you did not sincerely expect him to. The look on his face reads more like the cat that got the canary than regretful. You feel as though you’ve come to recognize that expression on his face and you also feel as though you don’t much like the fact that you’ve enough encounters with this man that you can recognize a damn thing about him. “What… could you possibly need me to do for you? I am not robbing a bank.” You just want to get that out into the open as soon as possible.

“I don’t need your help robbing a bank,” he snorts as if the idea is preposterous and you take a moment to feel insulted. Wow. Okay. You could totally rob a bank if you wanted to. Deciding to not comment on your wounded ego, you let him get to the point. Otto pulls something out of his inner coat pocket. It's some kind of rolled up paper and you think at first maybe it's a newspaper or magazine. He unfurls it onto the coffee table and holds it open with two metal claws on either side so it doesn't ravel itself back up.

You realize it's a blueprint. "This is… Oscorp," you point out stupidly, brow furrowing in confusion. There's levels to what's happening here. Layers upon layers, melding together with rot and decay and you can all but smell it. But there's something missing, something that would tie all of the wackjob shit that's been happening to you and around you together. It feels like when you have a very particular thought and then walking into another room makes it dissolve from your head. You're trying to grasp for it, to fit the puzzle pieces together, but it's just out of reach.

"Yes. It is. I have a small task I need you to do," Otto starts off, metal phalanges pushing his glasses up onto the top of his head as he looks over at you. For the first time, you can see his eyes in the light. The warm amber feels like a mockery- you have seen his cruelty in action.

"Where did you get this?"

"Does it matter?" Of course he'd say that.

Your fingertips brush against the metaphorical wayward chain link. It's right there. You just have to grab it and pull it back to you, like the anchor of a ship before it can set sail.

He's talking. You aren't listening. He's tracing a finger over the schematics. You don't see it. Realization washes over you in a heart-dropping tsunami. The voicemail you got from Oscorp plays like a broken record in your mind. 'Hello, Y/N. We're calling in regards to your employment status here at Oscorp. Unfortunately, due to a breach of security, we are having to make staffing cuts and are going to have to let you go. We appreciate your time and effort and wish you the best of luck in your next endeavor.' It didn't make sense at the time. A lot of things didn't. You replay the scene of poor David, desperately pleading for his life at the hands of the man hunched over here, just in your living room. You mentally re-run it over and over like bad 80s sitcoms on late night television.

"Lab Coat Guy…"

You don't realize you whispered it out loud until Otto goes silent.

"What?"

You slowly look at him and take a single step backwards, shaking your head. The company embroidered on David's lab coat hadn't been clear to you in the moment- but it's crystal in hindsight. Oscorp. "You got me fired." Your tone is flat, until anger flashes through you, like a streak of lightning through a dark, moonless sky, illuminating all of things that didn’t make sense before.

"It doesn't matter. What I need you to do-" He's so nonchalant, so blasé that it only stokes the embers of frustration until there's a roaring blaze burning beneath your skin. It's all about him, what he needs, what he wants. He has the nerve, the audacity, to keep traipsing into your life, kicking you while you're down and then ask for favors? You want to say all of that to him but unfortunately for you, you're an angry crier. Your outburst of bravery at him the last time you saw each other had surprised even you- but now there's so much more emotion roiling around inside you.

"No. No, no. Fuck you. You got me fired! I can't- I can't not have a job, I have to pay rent! You could get me arrested for just talking to you!" Oscorp had you canned to tie up any potential loose ends before anymore Davids could slip through the cracks. You think about how scared the poor dude must have been, threatened into stealing blueprints from the biggest corporation in the city, for one of the most infamous criminals. You don't know how they found out you were even remotely involved and you don't want to know.

Tears are streaming down your cheeks and once the floodgates have opened you're very familiar with how long it's going to take to close them again. After all you've been bottling this up since you found out, too disappointed to even tell any of your friends or family.

Otto appears taken aback, to say the least. He even looks like he's at a loss for words; that's a first. You know he could kill you where you stand in the blink of an eye, but in that moment you don’t even care. You’ve been trying so hard for so long to get on your feet, to do things for yourself and get away from the past. You moved across the country, you left everything behind, you got a damn dog. It seems like every time you manage to take a step forward in life, you’re knocked flat on your ass, apparently literally sometimes. It isn’t fair. Things don’t come easily to you, you’ve always had to work for them. You aren’t wealthy, you aren’t a supergenius, you’re just… you. The job at Oscorp was good money and you really felt like you were getting your shit together for a while.

“They’re not who you think they are,” he says finally, so calmly, with such carefulness about his words, that you sniffle pathetically and look up at him. He doesn’t look nearly as pleased with himself as you thought he might. And here you’ve been, under the impression that he gets off on hurting people. “Oscorp. I’m not… I’m not just doing this for me. You have to understand that.”

The schematics are furled up and tucked away. You make the mistake of meeting his eyes. Maybe it’s just the tears that blur your vision, but you swear you see a softness there before they’re hidden away again by his glasses.

He lingers at the window.

“I hope you’ll reconsider.” And then he was making his exit, even taking care to gently close the window on the way out. But he raps on the glass with his knuckles from where he stands on the fire escape and you know the look of confusion on your tear-streaked face speaks for itself. Otto points to the latches on the window. ��Lock it.’ He mouths before he’s gone, presumably to wreak havoc and harass other unsuspecting young women that don’t want anything to do with him.

You thought everything had come together- but the more sense you make of it, the less you seem sure of the bigger picture. You aren't even sure exactly what he wanted you to do.

You’re left with an endless bounty of questions, and not enough answers to satisfy any of them.

#otto octavius x reader #doc ock x reader #fanfiction #otto octavius #doc ock

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crimsonheart01 · 3 years

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Make the Season Bright (Fred Weasley x Female!Reader)

A/N: FRED DESERVED TO LIVE! We were all robbed and I will spend my days making sure that fanon supersedes canon! To my lovely Nonny who requested this, here is the wintery fluff Fred Weasley we all need!

Prompt: 24. “I’m watching the Barbie Nutcracker.”

Word Count: 2.2K words

Playlist: The Christmas Song - Nat King Cole [YouTube] [Spotify]

Warnings: None!

“They know that Santa’s on his way He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh And every mother’s child is gonna spy To see if reindeers really know how to fly.” The Christmas Song – Nat King Cole

He apparated into the alleyway behind her apartment complex and peered around the corner to ensure that no muggles caught him. The snow was falling in thick flakes, the silence of it crossing over everything. He could see the busy street of muggle cars zooming by, but their sound muffled by the weather. An experience not everyone got to experience. It was hard to explain, but it was one of his favourite things about winter, the hols aside. He thoroughly enjoyed a serene snowfall.

He scanned up and down the parking lot before making a clear beeline for the double low-rise apartments in front of him. His booted feet crunching with each step. He murmured a quick charm to brush away his footprints from the alley behind him. It was unlikely that anyone would notice the one-way prints, but he didn’t want to compromise himself or her.

A flurry of snowflakes floated past him in the breeze, and he hunched his shoulders forward while shoving his mittened hands into his pockets. He really should’ve worn a thicker jumper. There was no way she was going to believe he hoofed it on the underground all the way here in what he was wearing. He briefly thought about transfiguring it into a peacoat but knew it was putting too much at risk. He’d find a way to distract her from asking too many questions.

He hopped up the few steps into the courtyard, heading to his left to come up to the building doors. He paused before pressing on her buzzer and looked up into the second-floor window. He could see that her curtains were pulled closed, but he could still make out her shadow on the couch. He could see the flicker of light from her TV.

He was called out of his thoughts by the sound of someone approaching. Fred had become a keen ear on all things around him ever since the war. He figured it was overcompensation for George losing one of his. He spent more time reading body language and listening to everything around him. He could catch the smallest scrape from across the busy shop. In tonight’s quiet, it wasn’t hard at all for him to hear as the door was unlocked and then the hesitation of the other person before stepping through.

“Hey, buddy,” The stranger next to him called out, “You coming in or not?”

Fred whipped around, always surprised at the cold politeness of muggles. It made him chuckle. They were still offering to hold doors open or letting people pass, but it was always coated with distinct antipathy. He guessed that it wasn’t too much different from the way that the old purebloods of the wizarding world looked down on everyone else. That forced civility with the lower class always present in the way they held themselves.

He smirked to himself. The thought that purebloods and muggles had something in common made him want to taunt and tease a few specific people, but the war was over, and people were trying their best to move on and, in some cases, change. However, he knew that if others were making attempts to adjust to a new society, he couldn’t continue to treat them as unkindly as he’d done in the past. Shaking his head, he brought himself back to the present and turned fully towards the door.

With a broad smile to the other man, he nodded, “Yes sir, thanks!”

He bustled through the opened door behind him, and they parted ways as Fred skipped up the stairs two at a time. He was fascinated by the layout of muggle apartment buildings. Everyone in the wizarding world, or at least everyone he knew, lived in houses—most similar to the Burrow but some as grand as a Manor.

Reaching the second floor, he turned to his right to the first door and knocked lightly while trying the handle. The latch popped open, and the door opened easily under his touch. He raised his eyebrows in concerned shock but then remembered that they made this arrangement a few days ago. She was expecting him.

He poked his head through the door, looking straight and then to his right to where she was curled up on the sofa. He grinned at how comfortable she looked. There was a mug in her hand while her feet were curled next to her on the cushion with a blanket thrown over her lower half. He admired her small grin as she watched whatever was on the screen, but he found he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

He sent a silent prayer out to Granger, the smartest muggleborn out there. She’d given him a crash course in all things muggle that had helped him woo this fine woman. He was still trying to find the courage to tell her who and what he really was, but it was always hard. Every time he found himself on the verge of uttering that infamous phrase, he always chickened out. Oh, if George could see him now.

Pushing the door open, he extended his arms out with a flourish, “Honey, I’m home!”

He did a bit of a spin while she looked over at him and chuckled at his entrance. The sound of her laughter sent his heart into a flurry, and his stomach filled with butterflies. He realized at that moment that tonight was going to be the night that he finally told her. Stopping in his twirl, he leaned over her sectional couch and sent her his signature wink. She clutched at the mug in her hands as she tipped her head to the side and laughed out loud at his antics.

He quickly toed off his shoes and shed his jumper, hat and gloves. He hopped over the back of her sofa, ignoring her protests as she stepped all over the cushions until he was cuddled up against her. He leaned in as close as he could get, only her cup stopping him from making it all the way. He gauged the scowl on her face, finding the mirth laying unhidden in her expression. He lit up into a bright smile before smashing his lips against hers.

She sighed at the greeting, letting her shoulders relax and her hands holding the mug settled into her lap. She lifted one hand away from the item to lay it against his cheek, sneakily threading her fingers up into his hair. He broke the kiss with a fake but content growl. She laughed again, quietly, only for the two of them.

Taking a liberty, he lifted her cup and leaned forward onto the table while taking a moment to watch the movie playing. He furrowed his brows at the scene before him, utterly confused. She’d shown him animated movies before, but this one looked very strange. Almost as if they were plastic dolls or something. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

He snuggled back into her, ducking under one of her arms and wrapping both of his around her.

“What’re we watching?” He asked, his eyes glued to the screen.

She smiled, “I’m watching Barbie Nutcracker.” There was a bit of pause where she shifted to get more comfortable before continuing, “I always watch it at least once around this time of year. To satisfy my younger self.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, having no idea what a Barbie was, so all he did was nod in agreement. Together, they hunkered down and finished the entire film, Fred weirdly fascinated with the storyline. He recognized a few tidbits from wizarding traditions, but so much had been dumbed down by, or even for, muggles. He wondered if this was the only version there was out there or if they had multiple ones.

It didn’t take long for the movie to end, and he found himself wanting to ask her a thousand questions, but as the credits rolled up the screen, she shuffled out from under him. He pouted at the loss of her warmth, but when she bent to pick up her mug, he understood.

She walked around the coffee table, calling over her shoulder, “Do you want a hot chocolate?”

He watched her as she went, wondering again how he managed to get her to give him any time of day. Instead of spending too much time stuck on the how, he focused on the now.

“Yes, please, my dear.” He shouted out to her.

He heard her tinkling laughter at his response before there was the sound of her moving about her minuscule kitchen. He continued to stare at the direction she’d gone in, resolving to figure out a way in how to announce his truth. He wondered if he could apparate quickly over to Granger’s flat and get her opinion on the matter, but he figured that was stomping over boundaries and chose not to do it that way. Or perhaps a Patronus to his twin and give him a double surprise.

Letting out an aggravated groan, he stood up and wiped his suddenly clammy hands down his jeans. Why couldn’t this be any easier? He strolled around the sofa to pick up his effects and hang them up properly. As he was walking over to the coat rack, he dropped a mitten, and as he bent to pick it up, a small WWW box fell out of his pocket. He eyed it warily, knowing he hadn’t put it there, and before he could figure out who or what it was, it was exploding into the room around him.

There was a loud bang as their signature product burst to life in her tiny living room. He heard the clank of cups onto the counter and heard her footsteps as they came running. He swallowed, panicking and tried to yell for her to stay put, but it was too late. She was standing in the entryway of her kitchen, staring directly at him and the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes fireworks popping off around him.

He glanced over at her sheepishly. This was quite a stitch and one he was completely inept at talking himself out of. How did he explain magic to a muggle?

“Oh, Merlin,” She whispered, more to herself than anyone.

Fred floundered for an explanation, but once he registered her exclamation, he stopped.

“You’re a – are you a witch?” He blurted out.

She licked her lips, staring at the bright W now illuminating her entire flat.

“Are you one of the Weasley twins?” She countered.

They both stared at each other, astonished at the turn of events. Then simultaneously, they registered the other’s question and answered at the same time.

“Yes.”

“Merlin.”

Then they both dissolved into shocked laughter. She leaned heavily on the wall behind her before sinking down to the floor, giggles continuing to fall out, to the point that she was wiping tears from her eyes. Fred followed suit, finding himself sitting cross-legged in the middle of her living room. With a quick wave of his hand, he snuffed out the fireworks and left them sitting there with nothing but the smell of gunpowder and fresh hot chocolate between them.

“You lied!” She exclaimed, pointing a finger over at him, “You told me your last name was Weekes!”

His mouth fell open at the accusation, and he tried to feel ashamed, but he was in the same boat as her.

He pointed back, “You lied to me too! You let me think you were a muggle this whole time!”

She laughed incredulously, “Only because I thought you were one!”

“We’re a right pair, aren’t we?” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

A long moment passed where neither one said anything. They were both processing the events that had transpired. Then Fred looked up and regarded her questioningly.

“Do you really live here?” He asked.

She grinned and let out a huff, “Yes, I prefer it.”

Then he had another thought, “How come you didn’t recognize me?”

“I had my suspicions at the beginning, but after a while and all the hints I kept dropping, I figured I was making a baseless assumption on the red hair.” She shrugged.

He let out a loud guffaw, “I wish George were here to see this. He’d be in stitches over all of this.”

She smiled over at him, realizing belatedly that she’d been dating one of the most eligible bachelors this side of the Atlantic. She blinked a few times, the shock of that setting in. She wondered if she should mention it, but he didn’t seem phased by it when he thought she was a muggle, so maybe it wasn’t worth worrying about.

“So, where do we go from here?” She finally asked.

He gave her a wicked grin, “You wanna see the shop after hours?”

She raised her eyebrows, “Really?”

“Yeah, I happen to know the bloke who runs the place,” He nodded conspiratorially.

She let out an amused and slightly exasperated sigh, his classic mischievousness and devilish personality connecting a lot of dots. She nodded at him before crawling over the short distance between them and taking his face in her hands. She kissed him soundly, rendering him speechless.

“No more secrets.” She murmured, and he nodded in full agreement.

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley imagines #harry potter imagines #harry potter imagine #fred lives #12 days of ficmas 2020 #holiday prompts

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lavendermagikwrites · 4 years

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Let me tell you a story. First: to set the scene. It’s about 11:00pm, and I am at my computer because I’ve finally decided to tackle the next chapter of one of my stories. I watched a YouTube video about an hour before this, but since then it has just been typing. I’ve changed into pajama pants and took out my contacts, but I’m still wearing a bra (this is important…to me).

Now here’s something you should know about me. I am the stereotypical introvert.

This social distancing thing? Hardly impacts my life. I know the names of three of my neighbors. I’m assuming I have more, but I have never seen them. I’m also a highly sensitive, socially anxious people pleaser, and you should keep all of this in mind as we continue with the story.

So I’m sitting at my computer, vaguely noting that a couple of guys are talking outside my window. My apartment faces the parking lot, so…

Next thing I know, BZZ! My buzzer goes off and gives me mild palpitations.

First thought: the mailman?!

He has buzzed me twice this week, neither time having anything to do with my mail, and I’ve possibly cursed myself by complaining about this to my mother. But no, that’s ridiculous, it’s 11:00pm. One of those guys outside must live in my building and forgot his key. So I go puttering out into the hallway in my socks and look out the door and what do I see?

A policeman. In a face mask.

Uh…

Now I’m thinking someone in my building needs help and can’t get to the door. So I open it and wait for him to say, “Excuse me, I have to get in right away, thank you for your service, kind citizen!"

Instead he looks at me for a second and asks what apartment I live in. Later I’d come to believe his hesitation was due to the fact that I did not match the profile of the person he was expecting to meet.

Anyway, I tell him two. He asks if I was playing music. I said, "No, not now” because at one point I had been listening to the Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist soundtrack, though later I realized that was the day before and completely irrelevant to the current situation. He asks if I had been twenty minutes ago, and I think and say no.

Then he proceeds to tell me that someone had called in a complaint saying I was being noisy. This causes me pause, because I’m trying to think when I’d watched that YouTube video and if I had turned it up too loud. Then I try to remember any time I've ever made a noise in my entire life and coming up blank because my brain has decided this situation is too unfamiliar and therefore is only working at half capacity. At one point I notice the cop has a cop friend, also in a face mask, which is great and preferable but also kind of gives the impression they're about to rob me, and they’re both just looking at me in my hobo chic glory, and at least my shirt is long enough to cover the massive hole in the outside seam of my pants that very clearly shows my bright pink underwear and the near-iridescent paleness of my leg.

I look back at my apartment, like I’ll be able to see what noise I could have been making. Then I look back at the policeman and say, “I don’t think that’s possible…”

He says, “Yeah, I didn’t hear anything when we got here.”

“Yeah, I don’t know…” and I kind of shrug.

“Well, if you do start anything, just turn it down.”

“Okay, thanks.” Why am I thanking him? Turn it down from what? I can’t turn down what has never been!

So he and his friend walk away, and I go back to my apartment, still stunned that I just had a conversation with a policeman at 11:00 at night about a noise complaint registered against me. I still hear them talking outside for awhile longer, just waiting to see if I start blasting the tunes again. Eventually, when I remain as dull as ever, they get in their police car and drive away. Only then did I remember that earlier someone had been setting off what sounded like fireworks nearby, and maybe that’s what the complaint had been about.

#apropos of nothing #story time #John Mulaney illustrations #tangentially related to writing #I mean...I was writing at the time #lapropos of nothing

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fanforthefics · 6 years

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For the @sidgeno-fluff-fest prompt “farming”. As per usual, went sideways. Comes in around 5k.

Geno drives for hours before he gets to the farm. It’s not something he’s surprised about—he’d been warned that this was the middle of nowhere—but he’s still somehow taken aback, by the long rows of trees on either side of the road, by the few cars around him. There’s isolation and there’s isolation, and this is clearly the latter. He stops the car a few times to snap some pictures; the magazine will like that.

He knows before he sees the number that he reached the farm. There’s a stone wall around the edge of the property, not tall enough to prevent jumping but a clear barrier, and beyond it fields of something growing in neat rows. Geno sees a big red barn, then it falls out of sight around a curve in the road as he keeps driving until he reaches a gate. The gate is big and imposing, and it has a modern security system on it—clearly the best money can buy.

Geno rolls down the window to push the button. The humid summer heat blasts in, not quite kept at bay by the laboring air conditioner of his car.

“Yes?” a staticy voice comes over the intercom.

“Is Geno Malkin,” Geno tells the button. He’s not sure if there’s a camera, so he looks as trustworthy and as like the ID photo security had requested he send ahead of time as possible. “For interview?”

“Oh, yeah. Come on in.”

The buzzer sounds, and the gate swings open. Geno closes the window thankfully, and drives through.

The lane is long and winding, through more fields and what looks like a pasture, given that there are some sheep on it. Then Geno rounds a curve, and there’s the house. It’s an old sprawling farmhouse, somehow both utterly and charmingly cliché. To its side there’s a fenced off area with more things growing; next to that are some chickens. And on the porch is the man Geno came to see, leaning casually against a pillar in jeans and an old Habs t-shirt that’s barely holding on to his arms with a baseball cap over his head.

Sidney Crosby, the boy wonder who became one of the most solidly producing musician of the generation, whose face has been on billboards over Times Square and Vogue magazine and, admittedly, on Geno’s wall, stands on the porch of his farmhouse much like he once had a stage: confident, proprietary, and more attractive than he had a right to be.

///

Geno parks his car at the end of the driveway next to an old, worn-in looking pickup and a Chevy Tahoe. Even Crosby at his height—which, arguably, he hasn’t considerably dropped from—had never been one for flashy purchases, but still, part of Geno wonders if there’s a Mercedes in the barn of something. Or, realistically, this isn’t Crosby’s only house. He has one in New York, and there’s a rumor that he has one back in his Canadian home town, though no one’s been willing to confirm that to Geno. Maybe there’s more flash there.

Crosby’s come down from the house while Geno’s busy making sure he has everything, so he’s waiting a few meters away when Geno gets out of the car.

Geno’s seen him in person once before, at a concert years ago, and while he’d been in the press seats then he still hadn’t been nearly important enough to get close enough to really see Crosby. Up close, Geno can see that what everyone has always said about Crosby is true—he really is different in front of cameras. Geno’s always found all the pictures of Crosby a little endearingly awkward, like he’s not sure what to do with himself. But in person, Crosby’s a lot to take in.

“Hi!” Geno says, when he’s managed to get out of the car. “Geno Malkin.”

“Sidney Crosby.” Crosby reaches out to take Geno’s hand. He’s got a firm handshake, with callouses on his palms like he doesn’t just sing for a living. Geno very firmly tells the part of him that is still eighteen years old and dreaming of stardom and a place where he could be himself and dreaming about the boy on TV with his pretty eyes and solid ass to shut up. He’s a professional. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet,” Geno agrees. He lets go of Crosby’s hand before he holds on too long.

“Do you need a hand? Is there anything else?” Crosby asks, looking back at Geno’s car.

Geno raises his eyebrow. “You say no video.”

“You’d be surprised what interviewers will bring,” Crosby replies easily. “Come on, let’s go back to the house, it’s too hot out here.”

Geno, who’d been a little distracted by the heat by the way the skin of Crosby’s forearms glowed in the sun, nods a little sheepishly. “Yes, good.” He falls into step with Crosby. “What weird things interviewers bring?” he asks. He’s putting the interviewee at ease. This is his job.

Crosby shrugs. “The best was when they brought two Labrador puppies,” he says instead of answering. Geno doesn’t push right now, not when he’s still trying to get past that famed Crosby bland good nature.

“Puppies always best,” Geno agrees as they climb onto the porch.

Crosby smiles at him as he pulls the door open. “You don’t mind dogs, then? Good.”

He doesn’t explain more, but he doesn’t have to when the barking starts, and nails on hardwood herald the arrival of a yellow lab, who noses at Geno’s knees and keeps barking excitedly.

“Sam!” Crosby orders, but it’s softened by laughter, and the dog—Sam—ignores him. So does Geno, who kneels down to greet him properly.

“Hi, you good boy, yes,” he murmurs, petting the dog and laughing a little as Sam licks at his face. “Yes, best boy.”

When he looks up, Crosby’s looking down at them, and while his face is generally set in a neutral smile, there’s something that looks like more of a real smile at the corner of his eyes—the smile Geno had seen when one of his team had snuck videos of him in a recording studio, his guitar on his lap and his eyes half closed as he sang.

Geno swallows and stands up. He is a professional. This should be like any other interview he’s ever done.

“Had him long?” he asks, gesturing at Sam.

Crosby’s eyes flick over Geno, like he’s evaluating. “A few years,” he says. “I got him a little after I got back into it.”

After the concussion, he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t have to. Anyone who follows the music industry even a little—or is a Sidney Crosby fan—knows about the accident that took him out of the game for almost two years, right at the height of his fame. Geno can remember seeing the youtube video that showed it—the light falling on stage, Crosby’s collapse.

But the Crosby now doesn’t look anything like the still figure on the stage that the video shows. This Crosby looks strong enough to lift an ox. “So,” he says. “Living room okay for the interview?”

“Yes, okay. Wherever you most comfortable.”

“Great.” Crosby leads the way to the living room, which looks, in all honesty, more like a decorator decorated than he did. It’s comfortable enough, but it has the slightly too-polished look Geno associates with rooms no one lives in. In a corner of the room, there’s a display case; Geno can just see some gold gramophones statuettes there.

Crosby takes a seat on the couch, gestures Geno to an arm chair. When he sits down, he spreads his legs a little, claiming the space. Geno doesn’t think at all about the strength in those thighs. Whatever Crosby’s been doing up here on the farm, it’s working for him.

“Oh, hey. Want something to drink first?” Crosby asks, just as he gets settled.

“No, good.” Geno shakes his head. “If you want, should get.”

Crosby shrugs. “I’m fine for right now.” He leans back in the couch, clearly waiting.

Geno had prepared questions—had worked hard on the questions, because he knew perfectly well that this interview could make or break his career. No one had really interviewed Sidney Crosby for years, not since he got enough fame that he didn’t need the interviews for promo. Certainly no one had gotten to come to his house. Geno’s doing okay for himself, but neither he nor his magazine are nearly at the level where they should be the ones here.

And yet. Here he is, with Sidney Crosby looking levelly at him. The boy Geno had been couldn’t even have conceived of this.

“Why farm?” he asks, instead of all of them. “Thought you would go back to Canada, to boat.”

It startles a laugh out of Crosby, something loud and unpracticed. It’s maybe the first thing about him Geno’s seen that didn’t seen polished; it’s incredibly charming, as is the color that dusts across his cheeks after.

“I, uh. Don’t know, really.” Crosby pushes his lips together. “I love Cole Harbor, and it’ll always be home, but it’s not exactly someplace I can disappear. Up here, there’s nothing.”

“Yes, I see.”

Another quick smile from Crosby. Geno isn’t keeping score, but he definitely thinks he’s winning something. “Are you going to write any of this down?” Crosby asks, nodding at Geno’s bag.

“Will write down when you say something interesting,” Geno replies, maybe too informal, but he sees the glint in Crosby’s eyes. Maybe he says he wants to disappear up here, but he doesn’t look like he wants Geno to stop teasing. He’s a reporter, he needs to adapt to the needs of the interviewee. “May take long time, but willing to wait.”

“We’ll see what wins, your persistence or my media training,” Crosby agrees. He settles back, and crosses his arms over his chest. If it’s a move meant to distract Geno from that persistence, it’s a good one; it pulls the fabric of his t-shirt taut over his arms and shoulders so that Geno could probably see every muscle there. Muscles that he’s definitely, under different circumstances, imagined licking. “I should warn you, people say I’m competitive.”

Because Geno is very tactful, he doesn’t make the obvious retort of ‘no duh.’ There are maybe three things the world is sure about Sidney Crosby: that he’s an amazing musician, that he will never say anything about his private life if he can say a bland nothing instead, and that he’s an awful loser.

That must play out on Geno’s face anyway, because Crosby gives a rueful half smile. “Yeah, I’m not very good at hiding that one.”

Geno shrugs. “Can’t hide everything,” he replies, though Crosby’s lived his life doing as much of that as he can. But people have asked him why he’s so private for years and no one’s ever gotten an answer. Instead, he asks. “You not go into something where get to win lots, though?”

“I almost did,” Crosby says, and Geno tries not to scramble for his notepad. It’s part of the mythos of Sidney Crosby—the hockey prodigy who chose music over the ice—but it’s not something Crosby talks about, really.

“Why not, then?”

Crosby hums. “A lot of reasons. Hockey had gotten…bad, around then. I mean, music doesn’t mean people are ever showering me with praise, but hockey—it got dangerous.” He doesn’t have any emotion in relating this, but Geno grits his teeth and tries not to think about that kid. “And there was a lot of family pressure, and hockey was always going to have a shelf life in a way that music doesn’t have to, and…” Crosby shrugs. “I think in some ways I loved hockey more, and I didn’t want to make that my life too.” He smiles again, just a little crooked. “Now I can just kick friends’ asses on the ice for fun.”

“Not kick mine,” Geno boasts, partly because he might be a competitive asshole too, but also because he isn’t thinking. This is so much more than the usual anodyne answers Crosby usually gives.

“Yeah?” Crosby asks. His eyes are glinting again, and they flick up and down Geno quickly. Assessing. “We’ll have to see.”

Geno refuses to blush. “So, music instead? Ever regret?”

The smile fades into thoughtfulness. “Regret’s not the right word. There’s always a path not taken, eh? Sometimes I wonder. My life would be pretty different. But if I’d gone the hockey route, I’d probably wonder too, so.” He shrugs fatalistically. “I’m happy. That’s what matters.”

Geno doesn’t say what he thinks, that he’s not sure Crosby does look happy. He’s a reporter, he’s not here to judge. But he is here to observe, and he hasn’t seen anyone other than Crosby’s dog—hasn’t seen evidence of another person, or of a house that’s really lived in. When Geno pictures happiness, it’s the noise and craziness of his parents’ house; it’s dinner with Gonch’s family and the girls talking over each other; it’s cuddling someone close.

But he doesn’t know Crosby, not really. No matter how often he’s listened to his music.

“Do you have questions about the album, then?” Crosby asks, and Geno starts. Right. He can be a professional.

“Yes, now you warmed up,” he nods. “So. Mr. Crosby—”

Crosby laughs, that same suddenly loud noise that makes Geno grin back. “Sidney. Sid. Seriously, Mr. Crosby?”

Geno’s still smiling, because of the laugh and because Sidney Crosby just told him to call him Sid. “Not want to presume,” Geno demurs.

Crosby shakes his head, and there’s a quick glance at Geno from those hazel-gold eyes. “I don’t mind you presuming,” he says, and Geno’s heart does something that definitely isn’t beating normally. “And anyway, don’t make me say the clichés about my dad. Sid.”

Geno had tried very hard to train himself into thinking of them as two separate people—as Crosby, who he was going to interview professionally, and Sidney, whose poster he’d had on his wall and whose songs he’d had memorized. If he did that, he wouldn’t get mixed up with those teenaged dreams he could never quite quash, of Sid murmuring to him to call him Sid and looking at Geno like he what he meant was kiss me.

But then again, Sidney had asked. It would be rude not to. “Sid, then. So, tell me about new album? Why now?”

Sidney straightens, and that honey-sweet look disappears from his face like it had never been.

They talk for a while longer, about Sidney’s music and his new scheduled tour and all of the conventional interview questions. It’s more of the same, that Geno’s read in every interview of Sidney’s since he was sixteen and had to use google translate to make sure he got everything.

When they’re done with questions, Sidney volunteers to show him around the house, and it’s not like Geno is going to say no. The rest of the house is sprawling, and it’s the same impersonal decoration until they get to the studio—that’s clearly where Sidney spends most of his time, professionally set up with all of Sidney’s instruments and recording equipment and a couch with a notebook on the seat and the pillows messy, like Sidney had just gotten up from it when Geno had rung the bell.

“You play something?” Geno suggests with his most innocent face on, once Sidney’s finished showing him the recording equipment—apparently it’s very good and Sidney’s really into it, which is another one of those inexplicably charming things about him.

Sidney snorts. “Yeah?”

“Need full experience, yes.” Geno nods very solemnly.

Crosby shakes his head, but he grabs a guitar. “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“So you can’t record,” Sidney explains. He’s looking at Geno like this is a normal request. “I’ll play you something off the new album, but you need to give me your phone.”

It seems like a fair trade. Geno pulls his phone out of his pocket and hands it to Sidney, who puts it in his own pocket and sits down on the couch. He leans over the guitar, fusses a little with the tuning.

“Okay. So this is one of the newest songs,” Sidney warns. “I’m still working out some kinks. Just as a warning.”

“Yes, sure it will be very bad,” Geno agrees, and leans against the wall. “Sell no records, for sure.”

He’s not even sure if Sidney’s heard. He strums the guitar, then he starts to sing.

It’s—Geno’s loved Sidney’s voice for over a decade now, and he continues to improve and innovate on his music in ways that never fail to awe Geno. Geno’s a fan. Geno’s listened to his songs on CDs, on ipods, in person and in shitty youtube concert recordings.

None of that is anything like listening to him here. Like standing in this small room with just Sidney’s voice and the guitar to fill it, hearing Sidney sing about what it feels to always be searching and never finding. Watching Sidney’s fierce concentration on the song, how his tongue pokes out of his mouth even when he’s just playing, the way it fills his whole body. Geno doesn’t breathe for what might be hours, though its actually only maybe a minute.

When Sidney’s done, he glances up at Geno. His cheeks are a little flushed, and there’s a smile on the edge of his lips like just experiencing the music made him happy. “That bad?”

Geno draws in a harsh breath. This is the moment he’ll play over in daydreams, he knows—the moment when in his dreams he’ll know what Sid wants, and Geno will push him back into the couch and see if he can make him that happy too, see if he can communicate just how amazing Sid is with his body because words can’t be enough.

“Eh, all right,” Geno manages to say, and Sidney laughs. He sets the guitar back on the stand, and gets up. Geno can’t help watching the pull of his t-shirt, how he shakes out his fingers. His article is going to be a fannish mess and he can’t even bring himself to care.

“Want to see the good part, now?”

Geno is a professional, and doesn’t hit on his interviewees, or on international pop sensations who probably get hit on all the time and don’t want to deal with it from Geno. So he doesn’t make a quip about the bedroom. Instead,

“This not the good part?”

“Nah. Let me know you why I bought the place.”

///

Geno’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it’s definitely not for Sidney to take him outside and walk him around the fields and tell him about the new bean growing techniques he’s using. He gets really into it, too, more into it than anything else Geno talked with him about, his hands moving excitedly as he sketches things in the air, his eyes lit up. Geno’d always heard Sidney was a weird guy beneath the pop star polish, but he hadn’t expected farming.

It’s part of the whole realization of the experience—that Sidney Crosby is everything and nothing like he expected; as attractive and personable and good and self-contained, but also more than a little dorky and funny and more humble than anyone with a Grammy should be. And also more knowledgeable about beans than anyone else with a Grammy, probably.

“You really into this,” he observes, as they circle around to what Sidney called his personal garden—it’s the part the farmhands allow him to actually touch, he’d admitted with a sheepish smile that wasn’t helping Geno’s wanting to kiss him problem.

Sidney shrugs. “It’s cool, eh? To make something tangible. I didn’t really expect to actually run it, but.” He makes a face, and his cheeks are a little tinged with red. “I don’t exactly do things halfway.”

“So now you farmer.”

“I guess. When I can get up here.” They’ve made it to the pasture, and Sidney leans forward, bracing both of his forearms on the fence. Geno gets the no picture rule, but it’s such a waste to miss this—Sidney’s bare, muscled forearms gilded in the late afternoon sun, his hair just a little messy from the day, his ass even more too much than usual, all set against the backdrop of the green grass and blue skies. “I don’t spend as much time here as I’d like. And with the tour, I won’t be up here soon again.” He’s still looking out over the pasture, and his tongue flicks out to lick his lips. “Even when I’m not here, though, it’s nice knowing that it exists. That it’s a place for me to come back to. That even if everything else goes to shit, it’s here. The sun’ll come up, the grass will grow. I’ll have beans, come fall.”

He’s smiling a little again, and Geno is suddenly, viscerally struck by how abnormal this is. Sidney Crosby doesn’t say things like that to reporters. Sidney Crosby doesn’t sing new songs, he doesn’t invite reporters to his private sanctuary, he doesn’t tell them to presume. This is like something out of one of Geno’s teenaged dreams, but he’s not a teenager and he’s not dreaming.

“Why me?” he asks. “Why have me interview?”

He doesn’t fill in the blanks, and Sidney doesn’t ask him to. They both know that Sidney could have had anyone up here in an instant, and that he chose Geno instead of Rolling Stone.

Instead, Sidney nods slowly, though he doesn’t look at Geno. “During the concussion—a lot of people said I was done. That I’d never make it back.” His hands on the fence flex and close, the muscles working smoothly beneath his skin. “And when I was at my worst, I believed it. But you wrote an article—you probably don’t even remember it, I don’t know how I found it, but it talked about me coming back like it was a given. Like you couldn’t imagine me not coming back. Like it was important to you, and to everyone. It was—I could barely look at the screen long enough to read it, at that point. But it made me want to come back too.”

Sidney glances over at Geno then, and his eyes are solemn and the same honey-brown as the sun-warmed wood and he’s looking at Geno like there’s nothing else in the world. “That article meant a lot to me. And I wanted to help you out too.”

Geno’s heart is beating double time, or maybe not at all. He remembers that article. Maybe he could recite it. It hadn’t been much, just a few paragraphs, but—he remembered that time too, remembered Sidney unconscious on the stage, the few photos after of him, gaunt and somehow small, in a way Geno had never thought of him before. It had made Geno want to wrap him up in blankets and hold him tight and promise him that no one would ever hurt him again; failing that, it had made Geno hope someone else was telling him that. He hadn’t dared hope that his little article would have helped.

“Know article help you, that enough,” Geno says. Too honest, maybe, but true. “That what I want it to do. You best. Want to make sure everyone remember.”

Sidney smiles again, but it’s different from the shock of a grin before, or the media smile. It’s a slow, sweet smile, and it cuts through Geno more than any flirtation might. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Geno doesn’t break eye contact. Sidney’s smile lingers, then he glances back down at his hands.

“Also, I’ve read some of your other stuff. You’re really good. You should be doing more.” Sidney says. “This should give you a boost.”

“Everyone want to read about you?” Geno teases, and Sidney shifts, clearly uncomfortable.

“I mean—or, I don’t mean. It’s not that—it’ll get you some viewership. I can send it to my PR people, they can spread it—”

“Sidney. Sid,” Geno interrupts, before Sidney can apparently turn full Canadian apologetic on him. “I tease. Of course everyone want read about you.”

“Well, I didn’t want to presume,” Sidney shoots back, though his cheeks are tinged red.

Really, there’s only one thing Geno can do with that. “Maybe I want you to presume,” he echoes Sidney from earlier.

Sidney smiles again, slow and a little less sweet—a little more of the confidence he has on stage, that this is his territory. It’s not necessarily how Geno had fantasized Sid looking in bed, but it definitely will be now.

Then a phone rings, and Geno jumps. It only makes him feel a little better that Sidney starts too. He digs in his pocket, pulls out a phone.

“This is my sister, sorry,” he says, the heat gone like Geno had imagined it. “I need to take this.”

Of course he does. Sidney’s never been shy about talking about how his sister is the most important person in his life. Of course he really meant that.

“Yes, take,” Geno agrees. Sidney give shim an absent nod, then puts the phone to his ear.

“Hey Taylor,” he says into the phone, and he’s smiling again as he wanders a little away.

///

Geno leaves not long after Sidney gets off the phone, with an apologetic speech from Sidney about how he has a call with his foundation he needs to get on soon. It’s not like Geno can say no to that, so he lets Sidney and Sam usher him back to his car.

He opens the door, and then there’s nothing to do but get in it. He takes one last look around the farm as he goes—for the article, he tells himself, but really he knows it’s for Sidney, standing easily on his land, looking less like a celebrity and more like someone Geno could imagine coming home to, with his dog at his feet and some dirt on his hands.

“Thank you for talk,” Geno says, sticking out his hand. “And for let me see farm.”

“Yeah, of course. Thank you for coming. I hope you got enough for your article.” Sidney takes his hand, shakes it. Geno tries to fix the feeling in his mind—what Sid’s skin feels like. What having him this close feels like. The exact angle of that crooked smile.

“More than enough,” Geno assures him. He doesn’t want to let go, but he does. Sidney doesn’t comment if the handshake went on too long, just hovers as Geno gets into the car and starts to closes the door.

Right before the door closes, Sidney straightens. “Oh, wait!” Geno freezes. Sidney digs into his pocket, and holds something out to Geno—his phone. “Don’t want to forget this.”

“No, be bad,” Geno agrees, and takes the phone. Inexplicably, Sidney goes red again. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Sidney drops his hand when Geno has the phone. “Um. Bye, I guess.”

“Yes, bye,” Geno agrees, and then there’s nothing more to do but get in and drive back down the lane. He sees Sidney in the rearview mirror one more time, silhouetted against his farm with his dog at his feet, then he’s rounded the bend and he’s gone.

///

Geno stops for gas a few kilometers away, and pulls out his phone as he fills up to check in with his editor and tell him he’s got everything he could ever need while he’s at it, and also maybe to whine a little bit about how Sidney Crosby is actually perfect and it’s not fair why couldn’t he be one of those celebrities who are awful when you meet them?

There’s a notification waiting for him, from a—and he nearly drops the gas nozzle—Sid.

He fumbles his phone open, so the whole message shows up. It’s long. Geno can’t breathe.

This is Sidney Crosby, the text reads, and Geno manages a laugh through his shock. I took your number from your phone, I hope you don’t mind. You really should put a passcode on it. I just wanted to say that I enjoyed meeting you in person today, and that if you wanted, you could text me sometime. If you need some more for the article, or if you don’t. Now that you have my number.

Geno stares at his phone as the gas flow clicks off. He leave the nozzle in the car so he can compose a text with both hands.

Hi, he writes carefully. This is Geno. Are you serious about texting?

Three dots pop up, then, I told you. I’d like you to presume.

Geno closes his eyes, but the words are still bright in his mind. The part of him that is still sixteen slowly sinks to the floor in ecstasy. The part of him that is in his twentys replaces the gas nozzle and pays, then gets in his car.

Once he’s there, he gathers his courage. He doesn’t think there’s more than one way to read this. He doesn’t think Sidney would be too mad if he read it another way. Be careful. I might presume a lot.

Three dots, then.

Good.

#sidgeno #sidgenoflufffest #sidney crosby/evgeni malkin #pens fic #my fic #in which Sidney Crosby is unrealistically forthcoming with a reporter #and also unexpectedly has some game #also we're handwaving how Geno can write in English but has his usual speech patterns he has a really good editor okay?#and we continue my trend of posting past midnight...#pens tumblr fic

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