;

!

[/]: ok,, so hi. I’m alive and I’m hyperfixated on the mental tentacle man. I had so much fun writing this and as always my wonderful partner and editor helped me — @lilliryth

[]: Love notes. Stupidity ensues.

[]: Otto Octavius x Reader.

[ ]: 5400k words.

[]: Angst with a happy ending. Mental illness mentions, suicide mentions. Overall, it’s really fluffy.

Otto Octavius had always been a man of logic and reason, a man with an inclination for science, and more importantly what made sense—even if the grey abstracts of the field themselves didn’t at first. Because, in the end, an explanation, a hypothesis would be constructed.

However, what doesn’t make sense, what has his brows knitted, lips drawn into a confused scowl is the pink piece of paper in his large, tremulous hands. Both forefingers and thumbs pinch the edges, his pinkies upturned with strain.

The writing glares at him, a sweet innocence contrasted with the bleak anaemia that is his surroundings. And, by extension, himself.

‘I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.’

He’d found the curious note in his diary planner—well, it had fallen out, to be more truthful. It was a surprise to be sure, and from the moment his eyes processed the paper’s hue, he knew it wasn’t his own. Curiosity bloomed, fingers unearthing.

Absent, he shifts in his seat as the chair scrapes against the tiled floor. The distant paranoia, which feels like a lifetime ago, flickers the lights of his mind before the whispers are silenced just as fast.

There’s no more of that.

He’s reformed, even if he does deem himself unworthy of such… a note (it was certainly a note, yes). Even if he does believe it is just that — a joke — one set up to frame him as a laughing stock. There’s no more of that behaviour.

The probability of that occurring, anyway, is slim and, once more, borders on the line of the delusions he suffered from the AI’s influence.

Yet, the thorned coils which had wrapped and solidified their insidious hold around the organ that keeps his body moving, his brain working, year and years ago, won’t let him fumble for the threads of hope; of happiness. It’s too risky. He’s at a standstill, a stalemate with his own self—a meddlesome, pitiful thing. His logical mind screams:

Occam’s Razor.

And so, the natural presumption despite external opinions of himself is that someone is enamoured.

Maneuvering so that his left hand is holding the message, he places a fist against his mouth. His teeth bite into his knuckles with a tender force. His eyes remain fixated on the words, reading them over and over, expecting the mirage to dissipate—a hallucination conjured up by the deepest shadows of his mind, claws of the past.

Who—

“You alright, doc?”

Otto lets out a noise of surprise as his actuators react immediately. Taking up as much space as they can, they straighten out and he swears he can now sympathise with terrified cats.

He feels like a cartoon.

The crash next to him is wilfully ignored. His smile is half-hearted as he looks towards his co-worker, and as if caught doing something rather inappropriate, he shoves the tiny piece of paper into one of his coat pockets.

“Yes! Yes, yes… perfectly fine.”

The co-worker, Matthew, looks at him like he’s grown two heads, or perhaps a few more metal arms, and leaves without another word. It’s to be expected and yet Otto holds his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes with haste.

They sting with the burden of sleepless nights.

While he’s been in remission for ages, has healed and had his inhibitor chip reinstated, there of course is room — the room being very spacious and able to accommodate an elephant, though a room nonetheless — for doubt. If it’s happened once, it can happen again.

And, in all honesty, Otto agrees.

There’s always going to be the stain of his background, the stain of his mishaps, the stain on his reputation as a scientist. Brilliant but reckless. Impulsive. Harbouring the grandiosity of the greats with nothing to show for…

Yes, this is his burden to bear. He’s never going to be trusted again, not with the mechanical reminder attached to him for the span of forever; and since he’s never gotten his way - such a forever will be a long time.

He’s getting distracted.

Swiping his thumb to uncrumple the paper, a glance downwards determined the reality of the situation.

Real. Very real.

The walls of the establishment with each flickering glance creep towards him. Further and further they close in until that electrifying card of freedom is being wrenched out of his pocket and shoved into the lab’s clock-in system.

He’s taking his break early.

∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ✦ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

He notices you long before you notice him, the quickened strides you take are enough of an indication of where your head is at, and subsequently, your availability. Something settles in his chest at this conclusion, it’s not painful, though it’s not exactly comfortable either. There’s a heaviness there, a weight that he can’t quite shake.

Such a sensation deepens when you smile at one of your coworkers, making a small quip, he assumes, because they bark a laugh. It’s so surprising to you that your own amusement tangles with their own.

A lone star in the sky, tearing through the darkness with such a pertinacious conviction one’s free will to observe is obliterated. No, you demand attention, his attention, without even knowing, and it’s akin to the biological need to survive.

To breathe.

And now, it’s his turn to laugh. Rehashing poetry he’s been gifted to the local librarian was not a level he would stoop to.

The sigh he breathes is automatic and he drops his stuff in his usual spot, ignoring the holes that sear into him as he passes people by.

Soon, he finds himself in queue at the cafe nestled along the library’s front, glasses up and fixed (thanks to the trusty assistance of Mo), against the bridge of his nose. His research papers take a good chunk of his attention away from the vexing length of the line and the gawking, until the loud drawl from the counter, harbouring a mirrored resentment, interrupts his sinuous arithmetic.

Without looking up, he recites his order. A black coffee, no sugar, and a blueberry muffin. Within minutes he’s tucked away at the back of the library where no one ventures. The noise is rare, the whispers unheard and the halls gloomier.

He likes it that way.

“I always wished I could do maths. Aside from how awful and traumatic the teachers were, it actually seemed fun. Though, you do make it look easy.”

Otto’s eyes widen. His gaze darts from you to the notepad he’d apparently pulled out at some point. Hovering centimetres from the page are one of his actuators with the pen that he stuffs in his coat pocket in case of emergencies. One quick scan determines that his thoughts — which were purely hypothetical — have been transcribed for him.

Ah, the pros and cons of AI.

A smile takes over his surprise, and he shifts in his seat.

“Anyone can do mathematics, no matter the setbacks. There’s always time if you put in the work.”

You roll your eyes and sit on the table, a hand’s length away from his notepad. The movement is so delicate and with such grace Otto’s breath hitches. He tries not to notice the way your grey pencil skirt rides up your thighs, the floral seduction of your perfume so close it coaxes the subtle fluttering of his eyelids.

“Oh, come on. Otto, how long have we known each other now? You know there’s no hope for me.”

“Quite the contrary, my dear. I will admit the education system is very flawed, though if there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“Well, for most, the will needs to be created. And considering you’re loving my muffin so much there needs to be free muffins after math classes. That’s an incentive don’t you think? Muffins and math!” you grin with jazz hands and, to him, it’s near irksome how delightful you are.

Then, your forefinger swipes at your bottom lip and he can practically see the light bulb going off.

“Hell, maybe I should pitch that to my superior. It’ll get more of the kids involved in our programs.”

Once the words process — you had the tendency to shoot sentences like bullets — he gives a soft laugh. He almost wants to tell you how enamoured he is, though his mouth is pinned. The urge comes out in other ways, however, as before he can stop the movement, an actuator is giving you head pats.

Your giggles light up the near-abandoned end of the library.

To his surprise, you’re not scared of him. Sure, he’s known you for a while now, but there’s never been such an intimate form of contact.

Considering all things, it wouldn’t have shocked him if you got up and left screaming. It wasn’t too long ago he was out of his mind — and criminal — and the bad reactions have happened enough times to where he’s sure it’s to happen again in the near future. What would highlight this experience as different, setting the event in bold, red ink, would’ve been the pain. Yes, worst of all, the pain.

“You baked this?” Otto asks, opting to change the subject as he reels in the actuator with a mental tug that looks unnaturally rough—as if it had been held by a string and yanked. He’s just thankful there’s no one behind him, he didn’t want to be accused of being evil again after smacking someone into the wall by accident and ruining half the library…

Anyway…

Watching on with a fondness, your eventual nod is hesitant and shy. Slowly, it gains confidence.

“We’re a family! The staff is all really close so if one of us is having trouble, then we do the best we can to help. I bake as a hobby and I think because of that I’m the only one Olivia trusts to assist whenever she doesn’t have the time.”

“That’s lovely. How kind.”

Your smile has a blissful sway and Otto finds himself falling into it, lingering a second too long.

“I could bake something for you! I know how hard you work, you practically kill yourself.“

Ha! If only.

His lips quirk upwards.

"Oh! There’s just so much to choose from. I could make you tiny cakes! Or some more muffins! Or cinnamon rolls—you kind of remind me of them, actually,” you say, ending in a thoughtful tone.

The smile you wear is beaming, the passion for one of the oldest crafts humanity has engaged in, is inspiring. Words are not enough to measure the warmth he feels.

With what Otto can only pinpoint as a sudden realisation, the fear of coming on too strong about a special interest — which he immediately identifies with — your joy falls, and your eyes widen.

Freezing, your stuttering begins.

The display is adorable and sympathetic. The dull ache in his chest bubbles a series of compulsions, yet never truly do they pop free. Reaching out and lacing his fingers with yours is the most overbearing and he has to physically clasp his own together to stop them. So far, his actuators have not betrayed him and he thanks the heavens.

“Oh— uh— I mean only if you want to,” you waver. “Of course, I don’t want to force you and I don’t want to give the impression that I’m great at it. I just—”

Otto releases a laugh, and he hopes it’s more reassuring than seen as an interruption.

“Darling, I’d love that.”

∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ✦ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

Curiously, when he gets home and checks his diary planner, there’s another note. The only places he’d visited were the library and his work—meaning the prolific, perfervid poet hovers around either area.

The only thing Otto is sure of is that it’s not you. He’d been watching you the entire time and there’s no possibility you’d slipped under his radar. Either way, the idea that the notes are coming from you is wishful thinking. A hope, a yearn which should have been quashed long ago.

He’s not a foolish, young boy anymore.

It read:

“Holding this poem

Close, like a mirror,

I breathe upon it.

I watch for some sign.

There is a faint mist

Spreading across it.

It takes hold. It clings

To the lean hollows

As the sun rises,

This sun that is going

To burn the mist off.

I give you chamois

To clear the surface.

I give you this sun.”

Otto feels his consciousness, along with his reason, leave his body. He’s now convinced this is personal, the stanzas, to his very limited knowledge of poetry and his inhibited talent despite all efforts of comprehension, call to his deepest sorrows. His regrets. Broken dreams. Still, what he gets from this is redemption, the idea of rebirth—forgiveness through the metaphor of the cloth. Of the sun’s rays signalling anew.

And somehow, it evokes something he hasn’t felt in a long time. The complex coupling of pain and release, the hope for a future. Even if one person has forgiven him, just one, he can live with that. Yes, he can press on and somehow that eases the weight. In the aftermath of all he’d done, awakening from that terrible abhorrent dream — for that’s what it had been, right? A dream? (Some days he’s not so sure) — he didn’t believe he was ever going to forgive himself. It seemed that such a luxury was off the table, not in the cards. Not for someone like him. And now, this tiny piece of paper who has no name, no indication of a presence, is telling him otherwise.

Again, he could always be misinterpreting it.

His own personal bias. Typically human. Typically Otto. Perhaps, he was seeing what he wanted to see because living with the pain is too much.

Heavens.

Solving complex equations, constructing blueprints, calculus.

It’s all things Otto has no trouble with and, in fact, found himself enjoying quite often in his free time. At least you get a straight answer!

This, though?

Of poetry?

Of love?

The trials and tribulations of relation — saying the right things, doing the right things instead of standing like a dumbstruck statue — turned to stone by the infamous Gorgon herself, Medusa?

It’s overwhelming.

He’s never been good at it. Not even with Rosie, who’d had the misfortune of marrying him.

He can’t help the way his thoughts wander back to you, and he notes that their winding, spiralling, tracks aren’t making much sense right now.

At this time of night, what did you do? Did you have a family to come back to? Did you care for your kids with as much gentleness as the ones at the library?

He’s never been to your home, though he can picture you lounging on a daybed by your window, curtains pulled back with the shimmering beams of the moon trickling in. He can see the celestial light emphasising the glow of your features, he can picture it so vividly as if it’s happening right at that very moment; unfolding before his gaze while he floats from the melancholia.

Perhaps you’re the sole one awake in your household, once again — as you’ve recounted many a time — forgetting the importance of sleep, so engrossed by a novel you’re reading.

Every time he looks at you, there’s a new book in your hand. To be fair, it’s one of the many things he admires about you. You have such a thirst for knowledge, a will to learn, bestowing it to those willing to listen. Not once had he seen you bitter, resentful or condescending. You use your intelligence as a tool to help others — a pillar he very much believes in.

His thoughts are no longer focused on the papers he took home. And, like wandering insects, they have a determination of their own, no matter his pacific nudgings.

You, you, you.

It’s time for bed.

That much is clear.

With a puff of a sigh, he sheds his clothes leaving his chest bare while swapping out his slacks with pyjama pants. Once he’s in bed an actuator tugs on the thin chain of his lamp, plunging his room into darkness.

The war against insomnia is a harsh and unwilling one, creeping into the early hours of dawn. The all but few hours he spends sleeping on his stomach is the only solace his back gets.

He’s unsure where he musters up the will to move again.

But, he does.

Swallowing his painkillers with instant coffee, he leaves.

The next few days pass with some ease and it’s something he’s thankful for. There’s an incident with one of the interns, though it isn’t enough to make him entirely lose his temper. All it takes these days is a look. The things attached to his back evoke more from people than what shouting could ever do. The fear of possibility, the fear that he wasn’t who he said he was — recovered and healthy — overtakes anything.

It’s as exhausting as the sideways glances.

By the time his last day rolls around, he doesn’t have the energy to visit the library. Seeing you would have been the highlight of his week. A break between the madness. But, with the ache in his bones, the heaviness of his limbs, the resolve never crystalises.

The sleep comes easier this time, bringing with it the passing realisation that he never received a note that week.

∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ✦ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

In all honesty, he feels a bit ridiculous.

No different to three kids shrouded in a trenchcoat, incongruous, feigning the certainty and self-actualisation adults possessed (though, honestly, time has taught him this really is a facade), he leans against one of the rickety oak bookshelves, hat tipped downwards, nose buried in what was the nearest book he—

He never did check what he picked up.

One quick glance at the cover and his face falls in horror. With quick fingers, he slots it back into the nearest opening and finds something more… appropriate. From now on, he knows to always look at the titles he picks up—lesson learned.

So far, in the half-hour he’s stood there, no one has passed his table and his quest to find out his ‘secret admirer’ is no closer than when he started. His things lay dormant, calling to him, pleading with him to end this charade.

He’s going to have to think of something—

“What are you doing?”

“Gah!” Otto drops the book he was holding and it falls to the ground with a heavy, reverberating thud. An actuator clamps on the wrist of whoever was about to touch his shoulder and he spins to meet the perpetrator with a scowl.

The techiness vaporises as soon as his eyes land on you. There’s a wince in your expression and he lets go of his hold immediately—he hadn’t even intended to be rough.

“My dear, forgive me! It seems I’m a bit on edge, I’m terribly sorry.”

With the poise of a feather, he takes your wrist in his hand observing the slight indent in the softness of your skin. It’s the first time he’s touched you, the warmth forever imprinted into the coolness of his own. He can’t help but notice how small your hand is compared to his, and following that same train of thought, how your everything is small compared to his.

If only the contact was under better circumstances.

“It’s okay,” you breathe.

There’s a shallow quality to it and Otto quirks a brow.

“Are you sure? Are you hurt?” his voice lowers to a whisper.

One of his worst fears rears its ugly head, slithering from the shadows with a treacherous grin.

It promises torture.

He can’t have you afraid of him. He could not — would not — stand for it. The hammering of his heart assaults his ribcage and for the second time in the span of an absurd couple of weeks, he feels like he’s an animation brought to life.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” you reassure him, lips curling upwards into something so honeyed he melts. The soft noise of surprise that leaves him is accompanied by his own relieved elation.

“Oh. Good, good.”

“So…” you begin, sliding your hand back from his. “What’s with the get-up? You look like a spy who’s trying not to give away that he isa spy and is failing miserably.”

Otto shoots you a look before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m looking for someone,” he answers plainly. He wants to elaborate but he already feels nonsensical.

“Ooo a stakeout! I love a good stakeout,” you form your hands into tight circles, placing them around your eyes. “Any luck, commander?”

Otto rolls his eyes and with a huff, he admits defeat. He can’t believe he’s in this situation.

Nonetheless, you’re cute.

“No, nothing.”

“Who are you looking for anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Someone has been leaving me these… notes. And I’m trying to work out who it is.”

“By conducting a stakeout in the library?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Depends. What are these notes?”
Otto feels a fire spreading in his cheeks and his jaw tenses.

“It’s poetry. They’re love notes.”

This is humiliating.

You gasp, hands flying up to your face, voice high-pitched and whiney, “Otto you never told me you had a secret admirer. How very high school!”

“Shush, shush! You’re going to give me away!” Otto whispers harshly, arms raising up in a frantic attempt to lower your voice.

Some librarian!

“Oh honey, you didn’t need my help with that,” your gaze looks him up and down and he squirms. The pet name does not go unnoticed.

“Alright,darling,” he smirks. “I’m asking again, what do you propose?”

He takes a step forward and you have to crane your neck all the way to meet him. He swears he sees you swallow, yet the hues of your cheeks he believes are delusory.

He fights the urge to take you by the chin, choosing instead to lean down.

"I-I— oh. Um. Well, I can keep watch,” nervous laughter punctuates your speech. “I’ll be your eyes and ears!”

With your hands on your hips, the stuttering leaves, “that way you don’t have to dress like a Looney Tunes villain in the middle of mylibrary.”

“Oh, it’s your library now, is it?”

“Yes,” you very innocently exclaim, batting your eyelashes.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” you rock your form sideways, looking beyond him.

“I have important librarian things to do! Besides, it looks like you have a visitor!”

Otto swivels around so fast he can hear the wrinkling of his coat. When his eyes latch onto his table there’s no one there and neither are you when he revolves.

As he reaches his table, he quickly finds there’s another note:

“Love starts as a feeling,

But to continue is a choice;

And I find myself choosing you

More and more every day.”

In the wise words of Sylvester himself—

Sufferin’ succotash.

∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ✦ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

The stinging in his eyes and the cramp in his hand could perfectly describe the day he’s having. Aching fingers release the pen from its confines and Otto stretches his back.

“Heavens,” he grunts.

He goes to return to his work and yet a tiny part of him screams to take a break, demands to be heard after being snubbed for so long. One quick glance at the pile of paper in front of him determines the small, squeaking voice is right. The dread making its home in the pit of his stomach will not ease with perseverance. Only with time.

A coffee would fix the problem.

Probably.

He’s almost on the opposite end of the library — which in the early hours of the night is a ghost-town, who would have thought? — when he realises he’s forgotten his wallet. Blaming the lack of sleep and his obsessive work ethic he makes a sharp u-turn. The lack of people is a blessing and he tells himself if he’s working late or can’t sleep this would be the perfect place to venture.

No interruptions, no weird looks, no bitter weight on his shoulders.

He’s about to take a detour, to stroll and loosen the ridged hinges of his knees when he spots movement at his desk. It’s unbelievable. Hilarious with the right dashes of irony. He’d wanted nothing more than to catch this anonymous little poet and because of such will, he had never gotten it. Not even close to it.

And now, because he’s not seeking — at least for today — to find what he desires, to solve the riddle which has been haunting him for more than a week now, he’s gotten exactly that.

Time to put an end to the cat and mouse game.

As he steps closer, he can see them better.

The hue of their hair is familiar, their frame, their body, their little idiocracies identifiable even from behind; the fidgeting of their fingers, the rocking on their heels. Movements that highlight the activity in your brain, a big beautiful world in which he wished was laid out before him and he could, with some sort of magnification, watch the magic unfold—real magic.

A childlike enamour. A true love with all the sparks and the hope.

Whimsical.

“It’s you,“ he whispers under his breath and he begins to walk forward, a pilgrim seeking the divine.

"It’s you,” he repeats once more, a means to convince himself or to announce the processing of such a fact, he’s not sure. Perhaps both, sprinkled in with the desire for your attention.

It works.

You jump, knee slamming into the table followed by your shaking palms which fall onto the wood surface. You spin on your heels with a grimace, fast, harsh and evidently disorienting. He watches your form sway, eyes wider than an owl’s, blinking furiously.

He’s sure you’re in pain but you don’t voice it.

“Uh… me?” you grin and it’s tumultuous as you wring your hands.

“You’ve been leaving the notes all along,” he says, inching closer.

“Oh, whaaat? Noooo… no wayyy…” you scrunch your face up in what can only be perceived as a horribly forced look of confusion. “What notes?”

Otto wants to laugh, but he’s swamped by shock.

“But there’s something I don’t quite understand. How did you leave one for me yesterday? I was talking to you the whole time.”

He continues to close in on you.

“I asked someone else to do it while I had your attention. You had your back turned,” you say, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “Not even they noticed.”

You nod towards his actuators and he hums in agreement, the pieces coming together.

“Yes, it seems even they were too occupied with you.”

Otto shakes his head, finally releasing a laugh intertwined with disbelief.

“I agreed to you keeping watch, and all along… it was you,“ Otto muses as he closes the distance between your bodies. Pressed against the table, you look up at him.

The restraint he’d felt in all your interactions evaporates.

His thumb swipes your bottom lip and he watches as it trembles. Your shallow breaths caress the back of his hand and his wrist, its warmth shooting through him as if directly accessing his nerves and suddenly it all makes sense.

The sound of the table creaking as you lean backwards, the scraping of your nails into the wood are enough for him. With a smirk, he leans down, centimetres from your mouth. Otto fails to notice his actuators cocooning you both.

"Not so eloquent now, are we?” He chuckles deeply, pressing his chest to yours when the actuators coiling around your forms tighten. Without looking, an actuator unwinds and the arm brings the new note forward.

He reads aloud.

“I hurt the most when lost, yet also when not had at all. I’m sometimes the hardest to express, but the easiest to ignore. I can be given to many, or just one. What am I?”

Otto quirks a brow before chuckling, “oh? How very highschool.”

He pauses for a moment, already knowing the answer. There’s a vulnerability to it, a hurdle he must cross for beyond is the green grass he’s always dreamt of. The dried weeds of the past have held him back long enough. In this, he realises he does want redemption, salvation—forgiveness. Nothing a God could ever provide, but a choice he has to make for himself.

“Love,” Otto breathes. "The answer is love.”

When he looks back down at you, your eyes are closed. Waiting patiently—just for him.

“Otto,” you whisper with a lull so sweet he groans with fluttering eyelids.

His nose brushes against yours and he’s keenly aware of the way you hold onto him, fingers curled around his arms, nails digging into the charcoal wool of his coat.

“My dear.”

Finally, he kisses you.

Lips in sync, hearts beating, the flitter of his eyelashes against your cheek. Their pairing is as tender as he’d imagined, the light almost hesitant nature of your reciprocation says more than anything he could ask—and he’s glad for it. For he, too, hasn’t done this in a while.

So long, in fact.

Your hands move from his arms and one rests against the fullness of his cheek, while the other travels through his umber curls. There’s a slight tug and he leans into the motion with a whispered, mellifluous moan. You slip in your tongue then, and Otto’s actuators unwind. Two latch onto the carpet with a carefulness to ensure no damage is done, and he assumes they’re reacting to the dizziness he feels, while the other two grip the table in a similar manner. There, he lowers you with a tilt. He hovers over you, kiss yet to be broken as you rest against the wooden surface. While your legs go to wrap around him, Otto pulls away with a lovestruck smile. It’s light and his brows are lifted at their tips, eyes hooded.

“How long?” He asks.

He’s so gentle, he can’t help it—he doesn’t want to misstep, make the wrong move or harm you in any way. There’s such a deep, intrinsic need to keep you safe it’s overwhelming. Suffocating.

Once you open your eyes, delayed as if still soaring from the kiss yourself, he feels the warm giddiness in his stomach intensify. Part of him expects the scenery to change, to morph into the darkness of his room, far from you; without a light.

“Since the beginning,” you confess.

He recalls the early days of his healing. While he had gotten his inhibitor chip fixed, the psychological damage was done. And so, for a long while he struggled. With the looks: suspicious, fearful, disgusted. He struggled with his co-workers’ opinions, the hecklers, the random acts of unkindness. In a way, at the start, it was as if he hadn’t changed at all, the irritability, the impulses, minus the lack of impulse control, were still there. He wasn’t as stable as he is now, he had to get there. And so, logically, this did not make sense, for how could someone love a monster such as he?

“How were you not scared of me?” He says, honestly. Wearing his heart on his sleeve, he hangs on your every word.

“Otto,” you ease, thumb reaching down to stroke his bottom lip. “I don’t believe anyone’s more fearful of you, than yourself.”

He says nothing. He knows you’re right.

With a knowing look, you cup both of his cheeks and he leans down to rest his forehead against yours. It’s easy to get lost while in the entrancement of the library; a gentle giant. It really does feel like they’re alone there, just the two of them hidden in the clearing of the secretive shelves.

“You don’t have to be so afraid anymore,” she punctuates her sentence with a kiss. “You’re so full of goodness. You’ve always tried to do your best.”

Another kiss.

“You’re enough even if you think you’ve lost yourself.”

And another.

“But you don’t have to be alone anymore. We can find that, together.”

Otto is the first one to close the gap this time, and he tries to ignore the trails running down his cheeks which are swiped away by your thumbs.

Always so perceptive and so caring.

That night, he doesn’t go home alone and the blandness of his apartment doesn’t feel so bland anymore. Not with you near it.

And he finds, with you by his side, he falls asleep without difficulty.

Okay but angry/annoyed Otto Octavius…..yea….yes please

The masculine urge to get gender envy from both Johnny Knoxville and Otto Octavius.