personals DO NOT INTERACT ( rp sideblogs are the exception )
independent / private / selective
recommended 16+
Otto “Doc Ock” Octavius, as seen in Spider-Man 2 (2004) and Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021)
Heavily featuring influences from 616, the novelization, and headcanons
Studied by Kriss ( he/him, 18+ ) / GMT+8 / college student
✦ A STUDY IN: arrogance, perseverance, and dying the hero. Atë, god of ruin, rash action, and reckless impulse.
✦ CONTENT WARNINGS: includes untagged and recurring mentions of violence, alcohol consumption (light), smoking (light), death, loss of self control, and murder. Highly advised not to follow if any mentions of the topics put you off.
✦ STATUS: mid activity
✦ HEADCANONS: still WIPs!
( those marked with ✧ are highly important and best read prior to interaction )
[ ✧ the arms ] / [ mental health ]
[ ] / [ ✧ ]
A sound caught in Liv’s throat at his question, as if the answer wasn’t obvious/. But in that, they were similar, not wanting to make assumptions that would make them appear the fool. Make a hypothesis, test it, question it, and see whether the results met your expectations or not. If he was anything like her, that was how they stayed on top of the game.
She was about to answer when a vicious-looking arm seemed poised to remove her head from her shoulders. Fair enough; just because they were alternate versions of themselves didn’t mean they came from the same beginnings.
“No apology needed, they’re just doing… what they’re supposed to,” she replied with a narrowed gaze. What their purpose was, she didn’t know but, again, she didn’t want to assume. Maybe he had a weak spine and needed the prosthetics to get around. But the fact that they seemed to have personalities of their own was even more intriguing.
“Doctor Olivia Octavius. My best guess is you’re also a Doctor Octavius…?”
“Fascinating...” As if on cue, the arms seem to droop lower; less a command, more a concept he’d communicated with them. Octavius tilts his head, and half expects her to copy though the thought itself is ridiculous even to him in the moment. Decapitated claw is tucked into his inner coat pocket, snow crunching beneath stolen boots when he approaches closer to inspect. No part of her is recognizable to him, aside from the mere idea of four 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜.
“Your guess is as good as mine;” a subtle prideful comment on intellect. Perhaps it’s a universal constant that Octavius’ are gifted with good intellect. “Doctor 𝙾𝚝𝚝𝚘 𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚞𝚜.” He reaches a gloved hand out to shake, a show of peace, although all four actuators are raised in equal amounts caution and curiosity. Peter- of the other world- had 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍 him. What makes Olivia broken by comparison?
She sighed. She felt like she was treating him like a child, but he couldn’t just carry on like this. How long would it take him to actually pass out and hit the floor? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to know.
“Alright,” she said, grabbing his arm and leading him away from the table. “I’m going to heat up leftovers. Find yourself a comfortable spot. It’ll still be there after dinner, and preferably some sleep too.”
Former physicist follows her closely, arms trailing behind like 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜; any chance he got, he glued himself to his work. It provided good enough distraction to the fact that every paper he’d ever written, ever line of research, every groundbreaking discovery- was 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍. “Thank you, Ruby-” he starts, and is about to add but... though he stops himself. Otto sighs, shoulders relaxing; she’s all he has left, after his time incarcerated. He takes a seat at the dining table, knowing he can do little to stop her. “I truly do appreciate it.”
“I can, to a certain extent. I’m just going to prescribe you what you need, not what you want. “ Head nods to the tea in a slight encouragement, gaze flickering away just as she arises again, seeming to make it to a drawer where she keeps a number of blank scripts for writing. “I wouldn’t hurt a patient of mine, no matter what you’re deemed as - so your friends have nothing to worry about.” It’s odd to refer to the arms as such, but perhaps it’ll be something she grows accustomed to, depending how often he ends up coming here.
“I can give you some stuff while you’re here, then once the script gets filled I can go pick it up for you if needed to stay out of sight, then you should be good.”
Perhaps he would offer more retort for that ( he’s a man in pain, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚎 ), but he can understand why she runs her clinic the way she does. A sharp pain travels along his spine, one of the arms twisting to search for the source; bandaging lays alongside his metal soldered spine, protecting the stitches beneath that were being pulled on by the mere act of sitting up, and by the time they’ve assessed the damage he’s begun sipping his ( 🇸🇹🇮🇱🇱 🇭🇴🇹 ) tea. “They’re not my friends,” he is quick to correct, and the arms chirp in agreement. They’re his children, his creations.
“And not so much as ask me my name?” Otto scoffs; it’s a poorly constructed joke, really. By this point, he’s sure the moniker 𝙳𝚘𝚌 𝙾𝚌𝚔 should mean something to her. “Nor offer me yours, either?”
All the stress of the past few months had been absolutely worth it. Finally they were married; promised to each other forever. The whole day had been an absolute blur of celebration and she was so very thankful when they returned back to their apartment.
She immediately kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the sofa, making sure that she pulled him down with her so that they could snuggle.
“I can’t believe today actually happened. It was so perfect.”
𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝. Otto turns his hand over and over again, watching the light catch on the ring, the binding of their relationship; a legal agreement between state and individuals. 𝙷𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎; he sincerely hopes she hadn’t noticed him tearing up when he saw her in that dress...
By the time they got back to the apartment, he was still not done. Today had been surreal; a culmination of hopes and dreams all packed into one day. Watching her collapse to the sofa, he couldn’t help but follow, stumbling onto it beside her with a wide smile and a laugh.
“Darling-” he starts, playful annoyance. “It was. It is!” Like a dog on Christmas, Otto smiles wide; if he had a tail, it’d wag. “You’re my wife... you’re my wife! I’m your husband!” It’s as if he’s only realizing it now, laughing, shuffling up the sofa to pepper kisses on her face.
Norman’s fingers flicked the heavy curtain to the side, looking out the high window. The snow still flew heavily around, gusts of wind stealing flakes and swirling them into a dance he’d almost akin to an opera, if he was a more sentimental man. The snow left a fog between the gray water he could normally see, choking out the lights below.
So long as the power stayed on, he knew they’d be fine. The house would stay warm, however. He should have enough candles somewhere for light if it got that bad. He genuinely hoped, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d used any.
Letting the curtain fall back, he turned to Otto, a small frown on his lips. “It looks like the snow’s only getting worse.”
Otto clicks his tongue. He never intends to stay too long at Norman- lest he likely pester the man- but it seems he has no choice. The arms curiously look towards Norman, claws tilting in some open question. They’ve never been snowed in before, and it’s been a long time since Otto has been either.
“What a shame,” though his tone may suggest not. In honesty, Norman was far from bad company. He was one of his last friends now, nobody else to turn to. Isolation didn’t sound like a viable option, hence why he’d found himself seeing Norman more often than not.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind me helping myself to hot cocoa. I’ll make you a mug too.” Otto gets up from his seat, arms raising to avoid the habit of gripping the floor, so as to not ruin the nice place Norman still had left.
@rapxir asked: "Okay, that's enough work for now. You need a break. I know you've been awake for more than 24 hours. Did you eat?"
𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 hide underneath even darker ones, revealed just slightly for the sake of expression; his lips stretch into a line, with agreement though equal 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. It had only felt like 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜, no longer than that, but apparently she’s correcting him and he tends to be wrong plenty of times. The arms look at him in an 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛, the soldering iron switched off by instinct. What would he do without her? “No...” he answers, almost hesitantly, with a heavy sigh of his own.
There had been very little thought put into the suggestion, just a little idea he’d thought would be erotic enough to pique Norman’s interest, and it clearly is more than that. Otto sits with his legs open just parallel to Norman, who’s cock stands just in front of his own ( what a massive 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, he may’ve joked, when his face weren’t too red and he wasn’t too preoccupied by staring at it ). With only the slightest bit of hesitance, he trails two fingers up for Norman to suck on, before rubbing them both against himself. Again, he swallows something in his throat, gaze falling back down to see Norman taking hold of himself and-
Just the sight itself is a lot for Otto, has his cheeks burning up again, eyes blinking rapidly as hair falls into his eyes and is promptly ignored. He doesn’t notice for a few more seconds, hastily brushing it away with the unoccupied hand with slight apology. “I just...” he starts, a bit flustered. “I don’t even know if calling it 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢, 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, or 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 is appropriate here, it’s...” Otto laughs, partially to hide the oncoming moan. “Excuse the figure of speech but... it’s a lot to take in.”
His memories didn’t serve the view any justice. Each sound that Otto let loose only was a shot right to his cock, the scratches merely heightening the arousal flushed in his body.
Norman pulled his fingers from Otto, making sure to slip them from Otto’s cock as he pulled his fingers free. His middle finger slipped into his mouth, sucking off the juices left over for just a moment. Business and showmanship held hands more often than not, after all.
“Delicious.” Norman murmured, moving up Otto’s body, dry fingers trailing along Otto’s side. Lips pressed to Otto’s neck for just a moment, allowing a second of affection after that. Perhaps it was the liqour in him making him little more than a sentimental old fool, but he seemed to mind less with Otto.
Not that it lasted long; his hand soon wrapped around his cock again, a softly broken moan falling form his lips.
What was once a whine at the loss of contact became a widespread grin; he can’t tell if the blush is from being so intoxicated, or perhaps the fact that he found Norman’s pleasure so erotic, the mere fact that he had wanted to do something like that for so long and to be rewarded with it being arousing- Otto feels as if to look down and watch would be a bit rude. But another part of himself, the twisted mechanism that he’d built, echoes in his mind, telling him ( 🇭🇪 🇼🇦🇳🇹🇸 🇮🇹 🇹🇴🇴, 🇩🇴🇳'🇹 🇾🇴🇺 🇸🇪🇪? 🇱🇴🇴🇰 🇫🇴🇷 🇾🇴🇺🇷🇸🇪🇱🇫- )
It’s something Otto manages to oblige, stealing a glance, and his hand trails down Norman’s side in response. A light scratching of nails, before halting at his hip. Otto’s hand so much as continues on until his thumb meets the base of Norman’s erection. Rather than grabbing hold himself, though, Otto just looks... He won’t until Norman asks, but Otto barely mentions it.
Instead, he looks back up at Norman, red-faced and panting, with perhaps the slightest bit of sweat from his own dark curls ( and, god, does Norman look so nice that way too, so disheveled for a man known to be put together ). Otto leans his face in for a deep kiss, as if to hold all his moans there, to share them. Then he pulls away; 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝙸, asks the glint in his eyes, mouth slightly open.
@arandomnerdsrp578 asked: [ WAKE UP ] ― your muse tries waking my muse up with kissing and touching. (From Rosie)
First, he’d felt her hand against his bare chest ( the rhythmic, peaceful, rising and falling, only slightly undercut by the fact that they were both incredibly sweaty ); then came the kisses. Light peppering of them, here and there, accompanied by satisfied hums of encouragement. He would laugh, if it weren’t so early in the morning for it. He does find the energy to grin, however. It’s a weak one, still exhausted from last night’s activities, and the light bubble of a giggle rises when she kisses his nose.
“Darling, I’m plenty awake,” he says, though it’s no protest as he turns his body to face her in the sunlight that’s peaking through the blinds. “Good morning to you too.” That grin grows wider, into a proper gentle smile. He loves his dear Rosie, would never trade her for the world. He’d always appreciate such gestures from her, even if his own can seem obscure at times. For whatever reason, she’s stayed with him despite it. Even now, laid bare beside her, nothing between them. A hand reaches up to brush her hair then, just as gentle as she had, he presses a kiss to her lips.
@tigerfaced asked: ❛ you’re kind of being a butt-head right now. ❜
Brows furrowed, pouting disguised as a general distaste, arms bound to his side as the mechanical ones wrap just south of too tight around his torso. “Yes, it’s me being the 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝-𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, not the one taunting a restrained man.”
🐝 * ― 𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒. ( very nsfw ! another random assortment of various sexual situation. and , because it’s always a little confusing , your muse = sender and my muse = receiver. add * to reverse the action. feel free to adjust to better fit your muses. )
[ BUTT ] ― your muse slaps my muses’ butt.
[ SIXTY-NINE ] ― our muses are pleasuring each other in the 69 position.
[ MOUTH ] ― my muse gives your muse a blowjob.
[ LICK ] ― my muse eats your muse out.
[ THRUST ] ― your muse penetrates my muse.
[ HAND ] ― my muse gives your muse a handjob.
[ FINGER ] ― my muse starts fingering your muse.
[ ORGASM ] ― my muse has an orgasm ( during sex , foreplay , etc. ).
[ NECK ] ― your muse kisses my muses’ neck.
[ BREATS ] ― your muse massages my muses’ breats.
[ BULGE ] ― your muse rubs my muses’ bulge through their pants.
[ WAKE UP ] ― your muse tries waking my muse up with kissing and touching.
[ UNDRESS ] ― your muse slowly takes my muses’ clothes off.
[ BITE ] ― your muse bites my muse.
[ FACE ] ― my muse rides your muses’ face.
[ BEND OVER ] ― your muse bends my muse over a table / couch / etc.
[ SENSUAL ] ― our muses have slow , gentle sex.
[ ROUGH ] ― our muses have rough , hard sex.
[ TOUCH ] ― your muse feels my muse up.
[ TOYS ] ― my muse uses a toy on your muse.
[ BLINDFOLD ] ― our muses have sex while one is blindfolded.
[ SPREAD ] ― your muse cuffs my muse to the bed in a spread eagle position.
[ NIPPLE ] ― your muse licks my muses’ nipples.
[ TICKLE ] ― my muse tickles my muse.
[ SCRATCH ] ― my muse scratches their nails down your muses’ back.
[ MARK ] ― your muse gives my muse a hickey.
[ HAIR ] ― your muse pulls on my muses’ hair.
[ MASTURBATE ] ― your muse touches themself in front of my muse.
[ ICE ] ― your muse uses an ice cube on my muses’ private parts.
[ STRADDLE ] ― my muse sits down in your muses’ lap.
[ FOOD ] ― our muses eat food off of each others bodies.
[ WAX ] ― your muse drips candle wax onto my muses’ body.
[ HANDCUFF ] ― your muse handcuffes my muse.
[ SOUND ] ― your muse prevents my muse from making any sounds.
[ THROAT ] ― your muse chokes my muse during sex.
“Plenty of people have tried to kill me, sir, including people I uh - I thought - were my friends.” his heart tightened and he looked away. But he was still the kind of person to help. He kept thinking of what MJ said - because that was who he was, after all. And that little bit of warmth bolstered his chest as he considered the people he was trying so desperately to save.
“No. No, sir, no - no lost causes.” he said, firmly now, “If I believed in lost causes, sir, I - I would’ve given up on myself a long time ago, before the uh - the spider bite.” he shook his head again, more firmly, “I want you guys to live. You aren’t bad people. Aunt May said - said the same thing, right? You’re here - and it’s not your fault - and if I can save your lives? Then I’m - I’m going to. Okay?” he tried to sound firm, no arguments.
Middle-aged disgraced scientist reverts to a younger self, almost anxious, like he’s shrinking into himself; he hasn’t felt such self loathing in a very long time ( or, perhaps, not too long at all; it hadn’t been much time between the 𝙾𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙 𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 and now ). Gloved hands find refuge in coat pockets, at the risk of wringing them in-front of himself instead and shrinking even further.
The arms curiously loom over him with nothing to say, as if to still watch over and protect, although the threat is coming from the inside. “You are quick to forgive, Parker,” he says finally, after an awkward silence, having turned away from Peter to look distantly into the hallway where the others are milling about. “But I don’t believe any of us here deserve such pity. Me least of all, though I cannot vouch for anybody else... perhaps aside from Norman. And maybe Connors, but he doesn’t seem to be the Connors that I know of.”
