THE POWER OF THE SUN...

(   pinned post!   )     hi! i’m joey (17, they/them), and this is a private roleplay blog for DOCTOR OTTO O.CTAVIUS, based primarily in the sam ra.imi spider-man trilogy (   that is,   earth-96283   ) . i flavor my portrayal with aspects from the comics/games, but they are by no means my main focus. NO WAY HO.ME SPOILERS ARE PRESENT ON THIS BLOG.

find my carrd HERE. if so inclined, HERE is my permanent shipping call. it would also mean a lot if you took the time to fill out my INTEREST TRACKER (mutuals only please!). 

they need his notes.   it’s an unfortunate truth   -   the actuators don’t take well to such detours,   preferring   (   as all programs do   )   straight lines that resolve into clean answers,   but in order to properly analyze what went wrong with the first attempt,   he needs to look at his calculations again on paper.   they don’t understand it;   they have it all in mind already,   everything recorded and played back to him in perfect,   optimized script,   but that’s precisely the problem.   he needs to see his mistakes,   born of human error,   made before he knew the euphoric press of five minds as one.   this is just something i need to do,   he tells them.   i need to,   for the work.   so they listen.

it’s far easier to break through wooden boards than it is through tempered glass,   he finds   -   any emotion at the memory that thought calls up studiously tucked away,   taken into the care of the actuators so he can concentrate on his goal.   they keep him focused,   driven,   and he is grateful to them for that;   no more distractions,   nothing left to dilute his purpose.   it’s for the good of mankind,   what he’s doing.   that supersedes all else.

his desk is as haphazard as it was when he left it   -   untouched,   where so much else here has been moved or rearranged.   a crime scene overturned,   but they steer him from that thought,   too;   the notes,   father.   and there they are.   as he begins to collect various papers strewn across the table,   larry turns toward the rest of the room,   inquisitive as always.   (   was that a footstep?   ) 

find peter parker.   this objective has sat at the forefront of his mind since last night,   and it presents a compelling set of problems.   any number of ways to do it,   but which will be most efficient,   most effective?   he takes pictures of spider-man for the bugle,   harry had said.   best,   then,   to start there   -   and if he takes this opportunity to exact a touch of revenge for the libelous headlines he’s caught glimpses of lately,   who could blame him?   the paper’s editor has,   after all,   set to leaving otto’s reputation in tatters with all the enthusiasm of a dog with a bone.   (   the man reminds him of a roach,   pervasively abhorrent   ...   a moment’s work,   if he so chooses,   to crush beneath his boot.   )

coming through the window with a satisfying crash,   he is quick to make his intentions clear:   “     where is jameson?     ”   there’s a dangerous kind of gravel in his tone,   delivered low and to the point,   and harry and flo survey the space as he speaks   -   studying exit routes,   telephones.   anything that may become troublesome in the moments to come is catalogued,   his impatience growing by the second.   “     well?     ”

@secondock​​ :     “     [ SACRIFICE ]:     knowing that the circumstances only allow one of them to survive, the sender sacrifices their life in order to guarantee the receiver’s survival and safety.     ”     /     settling dust prompts.

he had expected their goodbye to be final.   in every sense of the word,   it should have been impossible for them to see one another again once strange’s workings took hold of them;   a trip through the looking glass,   but it should have been just that,   a trip with no lasting effects.   imagine his horror,   then,   to still see her now   -   the two of them stood among the disarray of the dock house,   backlit by an unstable protostar.   he watches her calculate,   rapidly,   just the way he would.   something like pride blooms bright in his chest,   but he knows what conclusion she must be coming to,   for it’s the same one he would reach.

it’s the work of a moment to sketch out how he would feel,   were she truly his daughter   -   picturing her in that role becomes easier by the moment,   a landscape of his and rosie’s best traits   (   and some of his worst,   he’s learning   ) .   if she were his,   if he had raised her,   it would ruin him to know she had died so he might live.   hell,   it will ruin him anyway.

in this he speaks for the otto octavius of her universe as much as he speaks for himself,   voice raised over the cacophony of caving walls,   staring at her against the terrible,   glorious backdrop of his machine.   flo snaps forward to hold her still,   to keep her from realizing the plan he’s sure is brewing.

@englitmjr​ :     “     ∗ 97﹕ sender  has  hidden  an  injury  from  receiver ,  and  receiver  finds  out .     ”     /     nonverbal prompts.

looking back,   he will blame how animated he was;   words translated into movement,   and it happens that his hand finds the small of her back as he speaks passionately to the benefits of a well-placed flake of salt.   it’s not an uncommon position for them to find themselves in,   but this time she flinches   -   such a small thing,   but he is so attuned to her,   so aware of her patterns of movement that it sets him to worrying in an instant.   he trails off into nothing,   brown eyes mired with concern now as brows knit looking down at her.

- otto may not be the most coordinated, but that doesn’t keep him from loving a good slow dance. he and rosie have probably taken a ballroom dance class or two, and while he’s not the quickest to pick it up, he’s got a few moves! 

- if you’re dating him, expect serenades. nothing embarrassing; just lighthearted playfulness, power ballads and show tunes, singing along to the radio with exaggerated drama. 

- stargazing! he loves it. astronomy is a bit of a side hobby, one he doesn’t indulge all that often, but if asked he can be trusted to pull a few star facts from the rust. (how many light years away is the north star, otto? oh, let me think, i used to know that...)

-he loves both to cook for his dates and alongside them - whichever they might prefer. there’s something intimate about making a meal together, knowing they labored together to create something; he would consider it a failure if any longtime partner of his didn’t walk away knowing how to make pasta by hand.

@englitmjr​​ :     “     ∗ 3o﹕ sender  wraps  a  blanket  around  receiver’s  shoulders .(them late nights in the lab and rosie coming to get him into bed though)     ”     /     nonverbal prompts.

thoughts have wandered once again,   brilliant mind lost in the throes of his project   -   it’s nigh impossible for him to keep track of time on days like these,   almost able to feel it slipping through his fingers as he works feverishly into the night.   breakthroughs leave no room for rest;   his hands would only itch to put the new ideas to paper,   sleep becoming all the more fitful for it.   it’s years of living that have taught him to follow the whims of this process,   rather than attempting to fight it.

still,   he aches now.   hours hunched over the table leave muscle corded tightly in his shoulders,   and he has to pause more and more often to rub the sleep from his eyes.   rosie has developed an uncanny knack for knowing just when to stop him,   and the soft texture at his neck is a welcome relief,   sharp breath in almost as though he’s coming up from water.

Norman heard the flat tone, and nearly missed a step. Suddenly, a couple things became intimately clear to Norman. The Otto he had last seen, and this Otto, were not one in the same. This Otto wasn’t even aware of the multiverse that laid just outside of their grasp. 

And everything that had happened to Norman in the last few months, could have just been inside his head. He’d barely been cured, and though the lack of arms should have been enough of an indication. He kept his smile, however. No matter the thoughts swirling through his head, this was nothing compared to what Norman had had to go through. And if he was careful, Norman would be able to… 

“You’re right; that fundraiser.” He offered a laugh, almost hollow, and shook his head. A lie popped up on his lips, easy. “Concussions aren’t a joking matter.” Easy enough. But Norman’s pride didn’t allow him to apologize now. There wasn’t a good spot to start. 

“Will you be at the benefit this weekend? I believe we should have sent out an invitation.” 

a deep wave of melancholy comes over him,   vague understanding setting in   -   does norman not remember it at all,   what they said to each other last?   to what extent does this head injury   (   if otto should even believe it to be true   )   produce gaps in his memory?   his anger is there still,   simmering just under the surface,   but he swallows it down to some pretense of civility,   already regretting the harshness of his earlier words.

“     no.   no,   i   -   you know events like that make me anxious.   are you   ...   well,   now?     ”