moonbeam-mothling

[moonbeam-mothling]

it's not that complicated | doc ock x shrinking!reader

Summary: After an incident at Oscorp, you're left with a condition where you shrink at random. You deal with this by locking yourself in your apartment while trying to figure out what to do. You didn't think anyone would hunt you down. Especially not Doc Ock.

[ao3 link]

[part two]

a/n: so this is veeeery PG-13, nothing explicit but the tension is HEAVY. reader is shrinking and this does contain G/t, and it goes heavy on the fearplay, fair warning! this also has a gender neutral reader and a very villainy Doc. all that being said, enjoy!

The rain patters on the window of your apartment, and you watch it fall straight down into the dingy alleyway below. It’s a far cry from the beauties of New York, but it’s all you have right now. Were this a month ago, you’d be down there, making a mess of the puddles and enjoying the coolness on your skin, but for now you’re barely brave enough to peek out the blinds for a second.

You pull yourself away from the bedroom window, rolling your shoulders and moving from your bedroom into the living-room-slash-kitchen combo that makes up the rest of your apartment. It's tiny, both rooms cramped, but it's home. You pause at the entry to the kitchen, staring for a second on the marks drawn on the wall.

The highest they go is a little over five and a half feet. Your original height. From that, they’re random. Vastly different increments, from your original height down to a minimum of two inches. The ones at the very bottom are faint.

(It’s hard to hold a pencil when you’re two inches tall.)

But today is a good day, and you are close enough to your original height that you feel comfortable in your own skin. Later you’d record this in your notebook, compare this with previous height shifts. As far as you figure they had something to do with your emotions, possibly your mental or physical wellbeing, but it had only been a month since the incident so there wasn’t enough data to have a concrete answer.

All you know is that shrinking has became commonplace. It varies with how small, and for how long, and you don't know what causes the spurts.

You just shrink sometimes.

You set to work on making breakfast. Bread, canned beans, and some apple juice. Nothing glamorous, but the best you could get delivered to your door, and all things that would keep if you shrunk too small to put the leftovers in the fridge after. Right now, half of what you make is for breakfast, and half will go in the counter underneath the sink, a stash in case your height dropped too far to cook or reach anything else.

Food eventually gathered, you sit down on your sofa, enjoying your meal in silence. The TV wasn’t worth turning on, the noise would eventually become annoying if you were unable to reach the remote to turn it off. So you go over a mental checklist of things to do while you still have the height to do them instead.

You need to make another grocery order, and restock the small stores of water you had in the kitchen cabinet. There’s a pile of doll clothes that need a little bit of tailoring to fit your smallest size, and you wanted to download a few audio books for your Walkman that you keep in a small bookshelf low to the floor, that you use as a bedroom when your bed is too tall to reach.

(On your good days, you prepare for your bad days.)

You had been a secretarial intern at Oscorp, and even that was generous for your job title. At most, you ran around gathering the coffee orders of various asshole scientists, and occasionally helped tidy up paperwork here and there. The chemical spill you were involved in was entirely your fault, despite it just being one test tube splattered on your arm when you were trying to tidy someone's trash left from lunch.

No one saw it, and no one saw when you shrunk.

The world grew around you at a rapid rate, vertigo making the fluorescent lights dance around in your vision. By the time you could even gather what had happened, you were mere inches tall in the lab, surrounded by a towering desk that could put a city block to shame. You had barely managed to sprint underneath it and hole up somewhere safe before you lost consciousness.

You woke up normal sized, cramped and crammed under an average size desk.

You went home. You did not go back to Oscorp. And you have not left your apartment since.

(Dwindling savings and agoraphobia are the least of your concerns. You don't want to turn into Harry Osborn’s personal lab rat, another little scientific curiosity for those scientists to pick apart.)

(You’d figure how to manage this, and then you’d get as far away from New York as you could, and you’d start over.)

(But for now, you stay in your apartment, where you don’t have to worry about being stepped on or stolen or dissected.)

Despite not being hungry, you finish your breakfast. Judging by the darkness from the windows, it isn’t even close to morning, midnight more likely, but it’s a meal and that’s enough, and you’ll call it breakfast if you please. Tossing the paper plate onto the coffee table - easier than attempting to wash dishes and shrinking midway, nearly flooding the apartment, been there - you lean back into your worn sofa. You shut your eyes, allowing yourself a moment of respite.

In the calm stillness of the night, it’s very easy to hear your bedroom window creak open.

You sit up, eyes snapping to your still cracked bedroom door. There’s the slightest possibility that it was just the wind making the old building creak, but all hopes are dashed away the seconds you hear boots on the wooden floorboards.

A small shiver runs down your spine.

You rise from your spot on the sofa, eyes darting to the front door on the other side of the living room to your left. Part of you wants to sprint out, but you lock up in fear. Outside meant rain, animals, pedestrians, shrinking out there would be a death sentence. The footsteps grow closer. A lump forms in your throat. You can hear your bedroom door creak open.

It takes all your resolve to drag your eyes to the looming figure.

Doc Ock fills the frame of the doorway, strolling into the living room like he owns it. His boots are heavy and thick on the floor, and he tilts his glasses down with a gloved hand just a tad, brown eyes sweeping over the tiny apartment. Even if you didn’t know who he was, he cuts a terrifying figure.

His eyes land on you, and his lips curl up into a smirk. He lets out a soft chuckle, stepping closer to you. You edge back, moving yourself in the direction of the kitchen, not once taking your eyes off the super villain invading your apartment.

“You know, when I heard there was an incident at Oscorp, I almost didn’t look into it,” he says. He speaks conversationally, as if you’re an old friend meeting him for coffee, not the owner of the apartment he just invaded. “They’re so uptight, trying to steal any data from them is near impossible.”

You don’t stop moving until your back hits the far wall of the kitchen, the wrinkled wallpaper rough against your thin tank top.

“I-I,” you stutter out, unsure of what you’re even trying to say. Your throat feels like it’s being constricted, brain refusing to work in tandem to make some demand that will make this man leave .

He steps closer, entering the kitchen. There’s a solid few feet of space between the two of you, but you still have to tilt your head back slightly to look him in the eyes, even at your full height.

“But when I found out it was just a helpless intern? Who didn’t even tell anyone?”

He smiles, taking full delight in your shaking form. He lifts a hand to pull off his sunglasses, folding them and tucking them into the inside of his leather coat, and steps closer.

Otto invades your personal space, stopping just a few inches away from you. His eyes look your form up and down, narrowed in scrutiny, reading you like a physics textbook. He’s roughly half a foot taller than you, putting you about eye level with his jaw, and you throw your gaze down at your feet rather than his intense stare.

“Tell me what happened.”

His voice is solid and low, the sharp command a contrast from the smile that was on his lips just a second ago. His face shifts into something stern, leaving absolutely no room for argument.

“It was j-just a vial,” you stutter out, “I, uh, it spilled on my arm, and I washed it off. Nothing happened.”

The words slip from your lips before you can fully think of the ramifications of lying to a supervillain.

The alternative, though, being shrunken in the hands of Otto Octavius, feels infinitely more terrifying.

Otto steps away, turning to look around your cramped kitchen. He takes in the small space.

“It would be a lot easier if you would just be honest with me, my dear,” he says. He lets out a small sigh, an indication that whatever happened next would be your fault if you didn’t comply.

There’s a shifting underneath his leather coat, and a second later the actuators unfurl themselves from the slit cut in the back. The metal tentacles wind and twist, filling whatever sparse space in the kitchen that isn’t otherwise occupied by Otto. He doesn’t even face you, still investigating the kitchen, but one of the tentacles does wind its way towards you. The pointed tip presses to your chest, skating upwards over your throat to place itself at your chin, tilting your head up slightly.

Otto pauses before the set of markings on the wall. He studies them, his face made of stone, and you can’t help the way your breath hitches in your throat, catching on the metal pressed into it.

The actuator retreats at that, and a small, sly look crosses his lips. His eyes dart to you, and he looks positively delighted .

“Oh, now that’s intriguing,” he says. With that he turns, stepping towards you, rapidly closing the distance.

You shut your eyes, pressing yourself into the kitchen wall as if it would absorb you right there. You can feel his presence draw closer, until the warmth of his body is directly in front of you, the smell of metal and cigars hitting your nose.

Gloved fingertips grip your chin, and your eyes fly open at the sudden contact.

Directly in front of you is Otto’s broad chest. Just a second ago you were eye level with his chin, and now he has to tilt your head fully back in his grasp for you to make contact with his eyes. The fingertips around your chin are large and firm, and he lifts up his other hand to pin it on the wall beside your head.

If you had to guess, you were a touch over five feet tall, if even that. Otto was a big man before, but the loss of even just a few inches make his presence all the more consuming.

He leans in, peering into your eyes, before lifting up his hand from your chin to tug off his glove with his teeth. He drops it in his pocket, and returns two fingers to your neck to take your pulse.

“This is fascinating ,” he says, the whisper sounding fully like he’s speaking to himself and not to you. You feel like a bug under a microscope, and the fingers on your neck jerk into your jawline as a few more inches dissipate from your height.

Otto’s eyes widen, the smile finding its way on his lips once more. His other hand braces up on the wall as well, eyes darting to compare where your height was a moment ago to now.

(Ever a scientist at heart, and now with a brand new specimen to study.)

“When did this start?” he asks.

Your lips part, and you can’t bring yourself to speak. The doctor doesn’t take kindly to your silence, and removes his hands from the wall, standing to his full height. You’re easily under five feet now, and your heart stutters when you realize how massive this man is compared to you.

“As s-soon as it spilled on me,” you choke out, deciding to keep on his good side. “It comes and goes.”

His face doesn’t waver from it’s now critical look, still analyzing every inch of your form.

“Are there triggers? What instigates it?”

“I tried to keep notes,” you eke out, with a small gesture towards the coffee table in the living room. He stares down at you for a moment, eyes still narrowed in scrutiny.

Unable to tear your eyes off of him, you watch as he moves out of your space once more. He turns, stepping into the living room, and begins rooting through the belongings on your coffee table. Eventually he finds the faded green notebook amid the mess of paper plates and to-go cups, and begins to flip through it.

He scans the pages with rapid precision, flipping through them as he takes in the notes on what you ate, how you felt, other health symptoms.

“A brilliant try,” he says. He turns to you, and he tucks the notebook into his leather jacket. “Inconclusive, nowhere near the work I’d expect of an Oscorp employee, but there might be something of use.”

Your eyes dart to the front door, behind Otto from your position. Part of you wonders if you could manage to race past him, take your chances outside, but the six limbs are a touch of a deterrent. As if reading your mind, he moves back to you, slowly stepping closer and blocking any path of escape.

“Of course, we’ll have to do some tests,” he says.

He leans down to make his face level with yours, and his smile is nothing but sinister. His hand lifts up, much larger than it was a minute ago. A thick finger traces over your cheek, making you feel all the smaller as you realize his hand is larger than your face.

“But I can’t wait to figure you out.”

His low voice sends a drop of ice down your spine. This time you feel the shrinking more than see it, your skin tightening, your joints groaning uncomfortably. It hurts in large spurts, and you screw your eyes shut as things begin to twist in your vision, your entire world thrown off by vertigo.

When you open them, blinking your eyes to bat away the darkness at the edge of your sight, you’re eye level with Otto’s stomach. The ribbed tank top underneath his coat clings to his wide frame, showing off the curve of his stomach where it hangs over the metal brace cinched tight around him. You can see his breath rise and fall in his chest as you drag your eyes all the way up to meet him. Two and a half feet of difference between you, and he feels like a mountain before you.

(And when sheer delight coats his features, you drop an inch or two more.)

“Are you scared, my dear?” he asks.

He doesn’t bother leaning down this time. His hand comes up to press on your stomach, the span of it large enough to wrap around your waist slightly. Otto pushes you into the wall, and you feel the ground leaving your feet as he slides you up against it.

The feeling of another human’s hand covering the span of your entire front with enough room to spare to grab you is downright terrifying. His fingers are big enough to be tree branches, and even as you squirm, their grip is far too solid for you to pry loose.

Otto pins you against the wall at his face level, and he lifts up his other hand to brace it on the wall next to you, carefully studying his hand in comparison to your head. Just a moment ago it was barely bigger than your face, now it utterly dwarfed your head. The forearm along the side of you obscures that side of your vision entirely.

You bring your hands up to grip the wrist of the hand around your waist, attempting to pry at it. He doesn’t even budge a millimeter, his strength massively outweighing yours. You can feel your fingers dwindling in comparison to his hand, the texture of his leather glove getting rougher as your size decreased compared to it.

“That's it, isn't it? You're frightened.”

He practically growls , his voice low and throaty. It makes you still entirely, turning your face back up to his. Leaning in close, he consumes your entire vision, filling more and more as you feel your size dwindle from your form.

Otto’s hand darts back from your waist, and as soon as a small scream leaves your lips something snatches the back of your shirt. Otto’s hand returns once more, this time clasped over your mouth as you dangle from the claws of one of the actuators.

He tuts at you, squeezing his hand over the lower half of your face lightly. It covers your mouth, your jaw, and there’s plenty extra of the massive palm. The leather is warm and bitter on your lips.

“Be good for me,” he says. His voice is soft, coming out like a gentle request, but the sharp look in his eyes threatens you to dare not disobey. “Be quiet, please, my dear.”

You try to nod, but can’t even budge under the strong grip of the doctor. He feels the miniscule movement, though, and releases your face a moment later.

He steps through the kitchen, the actuator swinging you around by the back of your shirt. None too gently, it pushes you against the markings you have on the wall, dropping you down to your feet. You stumble, barely able to catch your balance, before Otto’s hand returns.

His bare hand is warm, covering your entire shoulder and some of your bicep as he pushes you into the wall.

“Not even three feet tall,” he mutters. His grip on you loosens slightly, pushing you to the side as he leans in to inspect the markings on the wall. His eyes trail downwards, landing at the lowest heights you have marked. His gloved hand comes up to trace the faint pencil mark, standing at a proud two inches.

With him momentarily distracted, you step backwards. You edge back into the living room, trying to ignore the dizzying feel of everything expanding in the slightest increments. The gradual shrinking hadn’t stopped since he arrived, hopefully no more spurts would happen. You’re halfway into the living room, and cast a quick glance to the front door.

One of the actuators slam into the floor in front of the door, sending splinters of wood shattering into the air. You flinch violently, and in the same motion your height crashes down another foot, the metal arched around you rapidly growing as you rapidly shrink.

The doctor rises to his full height, and even with the distance between the two of you, it’s obvious you barely reach his mid-thigh right now. He steps closer towards you, each one of his legs bigger and thicker around than your entire body. It’s like watching a building move, and you can feel the ground lightly tremor from your position much closer to it.

“There’s nowhere for you to go,” he says, his voice filled with a touch of mock sympathy. “I doubt you could even reach the handle to the door.”

The actuator behind your back, blocking the way to the door, darts up, pushing its tip into your back. The sudden shove causes you to stumble, the jolt of fear instigating another shrinking spurt. Your body compresses in on yourself, and it’s all you can do to look up to Otto, watching his figure rise higher and higher above you.

He smiles.

As soon as you can muster the strength to move, you sprint for the direction of your bedroom. The floorboards seemingly grow under your bare feet as you move, the wood grain getting rougher on your skin as you get smaller. By the time you make it to the door you’re a little less than a foot tall, and it takes all of your strength to shove the door closed.

(You don’t hear footsteps. You hear a chuckle, low and satisfied.)

(He isn’t chasing you.)

(Because there’s nowhere for you to run.)

Even with the distance and the door shut, you still dwindle down. You don’t stop moving, knowing you have to get as far as you could before running will get you nowhere. Watching your bed and scattered piles of dirty clothes turning into monoliths would just terrify you further, so you don't linger on anything as you dart for shelter.

When you land at your final height of two inches tall, you barely make it to the nightstand beside your bed. The door to the bedroom slowly creaks open, and you fling yourself underneath the nightstand. A haggard cough escapes your lips as you inhale dust and stale air, and you shove your arm over your mouth to silence it.

It’s quiet.

You can still hear the rain pattering outside, only interrupted by the occasional clap of thunder. The lighting in the room is dark, even darker underneath the cramped nightstand. The swirls in the grain of the fake wood are taller than you are.

At this height, the closest thing of comparison you had was that you were the size of a battery, or two quarters laid lengthwise. You’d measured yourself against things multiple times in the long days spent alone and tiny. You knew how being small felt.

(But being small and hunted down?)

You hear his boots creak softly on the floorboards, as if he’s trying to move as silently as possible through the dark room. You push yourself a touch more into the shadows, hoping he didn’t have time to catch sight of you before he entered.

(It’s goddamn terrifying. )

You try to listen to his footsteps over the sound of your own heart in your ears, trying to keep track of where he’s in your room.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. His voice rumbles like thunder. It couldn’t be more than a low tone, but at your size, his voice sounds like a movie theater speaker system directly in your ears. “It would be best for you to come out now.”

Even if you wanted to heed his words, you’re firmly rooted to the spot. If you could shrink anymore, you’d be downright microscopic right now with the fear flooding your veins. His footsteps draw closer, and you lift up a hand to your lips to stifle the gasp when his boots stop before the nightstand.

You don't even come up to the top of the toes of his boots. The floorboards creak underneath him, the sound deafening at your close proximity. Fingers dig into the flesh of your cheek as you try to keep yourself from uttering a single noise.

Otto sighs. Disappointed, tired, and his foot taps on the ground slightly in impatience. The miniscule movement sends tremors through your small frame.

A sound like the world tearing apart erupts above you. Metal crashes into wood, and the sight of the building sized dresser being lifted effortlessly by a massive metal tentacle is so incomprehensible you can barely process it. The actuator tosses aside the nightstand like it’s nothing, and you’re left collapsed at the feet of Otto Octavius.

It’s all you can do to bring yourself to look up at him. He towers over you, looking like he could loom over the Empire State Building itself, unfathomably large. When his brown eyes spot you, his familiar smile returns.

You scramble to your feet, but before you can even move, two tree-trunk sized fingers are pressed around you, one to your stomach, one to your back. The ground rapidly falls from your feet as his gloved hand lifts you high in the air. All attempts at struggling are stilled the second you get a glance of the drop below, seemingly hundreds of feet down.

Otto shifts you so you’re sitting in his palm, the length of it easily twice your height. The leather is warm on your skin, and you pull your knees up to your chest, as if making yourself smaller would make you less of a target. His towering fingers arch slightly over you, preventing you from falling off, but it feels more akin to cage bars looming threateningly.

He draws you close to his face until it’s the only thing that fits in your line of sight. From this close up you can see all of the intimate details. The faint hint of stubble on his cheeks, the small smile lines in the corners of his mouth, the sheer curiosity in his eyes as he visually devours you.

He doesn’t take his gaze off of you, analyzing every single centimeter of your body. The heat of his breath washes over you, and you can feel the rapid pulse in his palm betraying his calm demeanor.

Otto lifts his ungloved hand, placing the pad of his index finger under your chin. The tip of his finger could easily cover your entire face, the finger itself twice your height, but he angles your face upward with the most delicate motion.

He takes in your tiny features, leaning in closer to examine you further. The tremble of your chest, the terrified expression on your face, your eyes unable to look anywhere but his.

“Fascinating,” he whispers. The word washes over you, his voice surrounding you like warm thunder.

He stands up straight, giving you a bit of reprieve from the close proximity, but only for a moment. His free hand tugs at the collar of his jacket, and he pulls you close to his expansive chest. Catching your eyes still on him, he gives you the smallest wink and the smuggest smile before you’re sent plummeting through the air once more.

You land in something warm and soft, cloth to one side and leather to the other. It only takes a second for you to figure out he dropped you into his coat pocket, and as he lets it go to fall back against his body, you slam into his chest.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says. He doesn’t have to say the words as more than a whisper for them to reverberate throughout your entire body, every noise in his chest shaking you down to the bone.

The world swings into motion as he starts walking, and it’s all you can do to latch onto the thick fabric. His heartbeat is loud against you, pressed right to his soft chest, and you can feel the warm body heat rolling off of him.

He gives a final pat to the pocket, large fingers pressing into your trembling figure to make sure you’re situated, before he vanishes into the night.

[moonbeam-mothling]

it's not that difficult | doc ock x shrunken!reader part two

[link to part one]

[ao3 link]

Summary: It's been a week since you shrunk down in front of Otto. One week in a bird cage, of being a lab rat, and you decide it's time to escape. Of course it won't be that easy.

a/n: this was written at the request of @miniemew! it's a continuation of my previous Otto x tiny fic, and it was a blast to write. reader is gender neutral, and this goes heavy on the fearplay. that said, I hope y'all enjoy!

The past week has been a strange mix of awful and mundane.

And the open bird cage before you seems almost more like a test than a blessing.

Tests. That's what the past week has been. Otto had swept you away, into some dingy apartment that looked far too normal to belong to a supervillain. Still stuck at the unimpressive height of two inches tall, there was nothing you could do when he dropped you in a bird cage before vanishing. Despite his intense curiosity, the man had other things on his plate, evidently. He was gone for most of the nights and mornings, but in the evenings, he always had a few minutes to spare for you.

For studying you, more accurately.

Checking your vitals, measuring your height, maybe an endurance test on a hamster wheel - which was now more annoying rather than outright embarrassing. On one occasion he had drawn some blood with a needle that seemed too tiny to exist. Whatever data he had gleaned from you was carefully recorded in a notebook, before he returned you to the bird cage.

(To be fair, it actually is a pretty nice bird cage.)

It's silver, the sturdy bars just thick enough that you can't bend them out of the way, and spaced too close together to even think about slipping through. The metal bottom is covered with some fabric, an old shirt if you had to guess, which actually was quite comfortable to sleep on. The entire set up is suspended over his desk, with a relatively large door that latches tightly from the outside.

Except, this time, he hadn't quite latched it all the way.

Otto's gone right now, and it's night. If his pattern over the past week continues, he'll be gone for a few more hours at least. It takes a world of courage to even cross the bird cage over to the door, anxiety blooming in your chest. The latch was usually unreachable, but with it barely in its slot, it could spring free if you jiggle it just right. The fall to the desk would be survivable - Otto had sussed out that your shrinking had left you with some enhanced durability. From there you'd just have to find somewhere to hide, until your body finally decided to return to its normal height.

(It's as good a plan as any.)

(And frankly, it was the only plan you had. So, may as well.)

Taking in a shaky breath, you carefully take hold of the door, giving it a slow, tedious push up and out. The latch slips loose of its hold, and the door to the cage swings open with an audible creak. You cringe at the sound, eyes immediately flying up to scan over the messy office, as if Otto would conjure out of the shadows at the faintest noise. You stay perched at the door for a moment, listening carefully. There's absolutely no response - no movement, no distant sounds from further in the apartment.

After gauging the safety for a second, you decide to proceed. You jump down onto the desk, not giving yourself time to overthink it. The desk is chaos, loose wires and stray bolts scattered about, almost every surface covered with some form of scribbled down notes or blueprints. Organization is evidently not Otto's strong suit, and it takes a minute to navigate around pencils and bolts to the back of the desk. There's a small gap where it meets the wall, the cord from the desk lamp falling down to the ground behind it.

You don't really have time to weigh the small range of options you have right now, so you decide the cord is as good a move to get to the floor as any. It's just big enough to hold onto like a rope, and you carefully work on climbing down from the desk, ignoring the massive drop beneath you. With enhanced durability you wouldn't die from it, but it still wouldn't be pleasant. You'd scaled even higher climbs in your home before, but under less dire circumstances. The fear that Otto might return soundly trumps any anxiety over climbing down the cord.

You make it to the dusty floor soon enough, pausing for just a moment to catch your breath. Your heart is positively drumming in your chest, the sharp buzz of adrenaline running under your skin. You only rest for a second, though, before continuing onward, not wanting to linger any more than necessary.

The apartment was more of a workspace than an actual home, something you notice while navigating over and around the multitude of mechanical parts on the floor. It takes a minute to get your bearings, trying to find the door beyond all the scattered clutter, but you eventually find it. Out the office, down the hall, out the front door, and you'd be home free.

Escape is the only thing you have on your mind, as you swiftly creep through the messy workspace. It doesn't take too long to reach the door, the gap underneath is just big enough to squeeze through, out into the hall. The carpet fibers come up to your knees, making walking just a touch more challenging, but that's one of the last things on your mind right now. Turning right, you see the looming front door in the distance, like a beacon of hope. You immediately begin jogging towards it, a small buzzing bit of excitement starting to grow in your chest. Relief washes over you as escape gets closer and closer.

A heavy crash breaks the stillness in the air, and you immediately run into something sharp and hot. You stumble back like a bug bouncing off a windshield, falling to the ground. In front of you is an actuator, the massive claw clenching down into the carpeted ground, just a few sparse inches away from you. The actuator flexes slightly, metal whirring softly as you hear a soft chuckle behind and far above you. Paralyzed in place, the warmth of excitement immediately shifting into chilling dread, it takes everything you have to look over your shoulder.

Otto stands behind you, with a soft smile on his lips that only he could make look sinister. He lifts a hand, waving his fingers at you lightly like you were just an acquaintance at a grocery store, and not a captive in the middle of an escape attempt. You have to tilt your head all the way back to even get a glimpse of his dark eyes, the sharp curiosity in them sending another pang of fear down your spine.

The actuator rises up, causing you to whip your head back towards it, half prepared for the thing to snatch you up in its claw. It doesn't, though, instead it pulls back further and retreats behind Otto.

He looks down at you expectantly.

"Try again."

You stare at him for a moment and only just a moment, before scrambling to your feet and sprinting like your life depends on it. The drag of the carpet fibers slows you down a little, and you fully ignore it, intent on putting as much distance between you and the looming villain as you possibly can.

(But... that's what he wants, isn't it?)

(A chase.)

Heart pounding furiously in your chest, you zoom down the hallway, lungs nearly bursting from exertion. Over the rush of the wind in your ears you can't hear a single sound behind you, and you don't dare turn back to look. You make it to the very end of the hall before you hear the first footstep crash down behind you.

The living room is far less cluttered than the office, leaving nothing to hide behind, no last resort. The carpet transitioned into hardwood, making running just a touch easier. You stay focused on the sliver of light from under the front door, and not the sound of Otto casually following you, covering more distance in one footstep than you did in ten seconds.

Risking a glance over your shoulder, you find Otto practically on top of you. He'd closed the gap in no time, with that same awful smirk on his lips. The actuators are poised behind them, all their glowing eyes are trained on you. Otto's hands are carefully folded in front of him - making no move to grab you even as your speed slows down in the slightest.

(He's toying with you.)

(And the outcome of this was likely predetermined long ago.)

Without warning, a heavy boot slams down in front of you. You stumble, the small quake of his foot hitting the wooden floor being enough to knock you off your feet. The boot's angled carefully, just far enough to miss you. It's practically bus sized, utterly dwarfing your minuscule frame.

You stay still for only a moment, frozen with the icy fear that floods your veins. A distant chuckle rumbles overhead like thunder.

"Last chance," Otto says, from far, far above.

Despite the overwhelming futility, you scramble to your feet, quickly looping around the shoe in your path. It doesn't move, thank god, and you continue sprinting to the front door. Every bone in your body is screaming out for rest, but you don't dare stop.

The gap underneath the door gets closer and closer, as close as the booming footsteps behind you do. A foot away, ten inches, five, almost there .

And then Otto slams an actuator down, the tremor of his metal claw on the ground knocking you straight off of your feet once more. You hit the floorboards hard, heart pounding sent into overdrive as you catch sight of the looming claw in front of you.

Scrambling upright again, you shuffle backwards from it. The claw darts up, pointed prongs of metal now directly facing you. There'd be no way to run past it without running into it, so you dart to the right, further into the living room. There's practically no energy left in your body at all, lungs and limbs burning from exertion, and you don't dare stop. The overwhelming sound of creaking metal follows you, and there's a harsh yank on the back of your shirt as you're swept off the ground by the actuator.

You struggle, although the grip it has on the back of your shirt makes it far too tight to slip out of. Fingers scrambling up, you hook them between the collar of the shirt and your neck, trying to ease up some of the pressure.

Something eclipses the light overhead, and you barely have time to process the giant hand in your vision before it swallows you up. Otto snatches you in a tight fist, arms pinned immobile to your sides. He raises you up to his eye level, at a speed that makes the whole world swirl around you, vertigo in overdrive. His sharp brown eyes light up once you're in sight, a crinkle around the corners giving away his excitement.

Despite the overwhelming helplessness, you struggle, attempting in vain to loosen the hold of his fingers wrapped around you. His hand didn't budge a centimeter, if anything his grip tightened in the slightest amount, just enough to knock a little air out of your lungs. Otto doesn't say a word, he merely turns to the sofa in the living room, quickly crossing over to take a seat. A notebook is perched on the coffee table, and he flips to a half-filled page with his free hand, quickly writing something down.

"Was... was this a test?" You sputter out, half convinced the man would ignore you entirely. Your voice is strained, still unable to get a proper lungful of air with his fingers around you, but his brown eyes do flit to you for a moment.

Otto lowers his fist to the table, loosening it and roughly dropping you onto the coffee table. You land on top of a stack of sticky notes, and you don't dare move. Even if you wanted to attempt to run again, you're far too exhausted to even try. You let yourself collapse, still trying to catch your breath.

"Of course," Otto answers, not looking up from the page he was still scrawling on.

He eventually glances at you, leaning in slightly closer. Otto fills your entire vision, his looming for making you feel like you were in the front row of a movie theater. A little bit of brown hair fell into those dark eyes, which flicked down as he carefully took your form in.

"I wanted to see how fast you could run," he says, smiling once more. His voice is polite and even, as if he didn't just admit to terrifying you on purpose. He turns back down to his notes, still jotting a few things down. "Obviously, your functions are affected when I monitor you closely for tests. I wanted something a little less structured than a hamster wheel."

He finishes writing, carefully setting down his pen on the table. His eyes snap back to you, looking at your face carefully. You're still breathless and sore, trying to gather yourself mentally and physically from the escape attempt, and you feel absolutely pinned under his gaze.

"You couldn't really have thought you were going to escape?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

"I... I kinda did, yeah," you reply. You'd never snapped at him, never raised your voice, but the adrenaline still buzzing in your system and the absolute fury and exhaustion you feel can't help but spill out a little into your tone. "Even if I got caught, I had to try."

Otto nods, surprisingly accepting your answer with ease. He leans back on the sofa slightly, actuators draping over the back of it. His eyes are unwavering, still pointedly trained on you.

"Admirable, if not reckless," he says, "I must say though, you're far safer with me than you would be out there. I can't imagine what Oscorp would do if they got their grubby hands on you."

Pushing yourself up from the sticky notes, you rise to your feet, crossing your arms over your chest. Despite how correct he probably was, that wasn’t his call to make.

"Can't be worse than a goddamn hamster wheel," you mutter. Despite keeping your voice low, Otto does catch it, and he laughs brightly. He almost seems harmless for a second.

"I can assure you, my dear, they would not be as kind as me. I'm curious, but I do not intend to do you any harm. Other scientists, well, their methods of discovery aren't always so kind towards their specimens."

You narrow your eyes at the man, trying to gauge if you should believe him. There was no doubt that Oscorp would have been a nightmare if they had found you, and in all honesty, living at the apartment wasn't going to work out long term. You didn't need confirmation that the world outside was dangerous, but you still wonder how honest he was really being.

"You won't hurt me, but you'll keep me in a bird cage for a week?"

Otto shrugs, unbothered by the accusation.

"Can’t risk you running off and hurting yourself," he says.

He leans in once more, slowly bringing a hand down in front of you. The same one that snatched you up earlier. You look at it warily, waiting for it to grab you in a fist, pinch the back of your shirt and dangle you, but he doesn't. He simply lays it level with the sticky notes, right in front of you. You can feel the heat off of his skin, see the shift of his muscles as he waits.

"May I?"

(He'd never asked if he could hold you before.)

(You can see his fingers twitch in impatience, and decide not to push his kindness too far.)

You gingerly step onto the man's calloused palm, feeling his muscles and tendons twitch underneath you. It's a little hard to keep your balance, but he brings his thumb up, something for you to brace your hands on as he raises his palm to his face. It's far closer than when he was looming over the table, all the minuscule details on his face magnified.

"As far as I'm aware of, you're the only one like you in existence," he says. He lowered his voice for you, the usually brash and proud tone now just a quiet whisper. It was still overwhelming regardless. "I wouldn't allow harm to come your way, that would entirely deprive me of figuring you out. I am still just a physicist at heart, dear, you cannot expect me to not be fascinated by a person who can change their bodily mass on a whim."

You can feel the heat coming off his hand, the shift of his thumb under your palms. From this close, every time he exhales it ruffles your hair in the slightest. His eyes are a mix of a dozen brown shades, still locked firmly on you, and you shift your weight from foot to foot.

"It's not on a whim," you correct.

(If it was on a whim, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now.)

"But it could be," Otto says, "Someday."

With that, he rises to his feet. The thumb you're holding onto gently pushing you back, knocking you off your feet and pressing you into his other fingers, coming to rest around your waist like a makeshift seat belt. A small noise of protest escapes your lips, ignored as Otto takes up his notes and walks back to the office.

(It takes him just a few seconds.)

(All the agonizing minutes you had spent running, trying to cross that distance, and he closes it in just a few seconds.)

Otto enters the office, quickly reaching the desk and taking a seat. You half expect him to immediately return you to the bird cage. He doesn't, though, fingers shifting you slightly in his palm, so he can rest his elbow on the desk, leaving you sitting in his hand at eye level. His thumb stays locked over you, like a heavy weighted blanket in your lap.

(You don't think you could get it to budge, even if you tried.)

"You honestly know less about your shrinking than I do, and I've barely begun to scratch the surface," Otto says. He speaks with a certainty that's just a little grating. "Your powers are incredibly unstable now, but there's no indication that it will always be that way. And even so, I still want to know how it works, what makes you tick."

He looks down at you, with that familiar glint in his eyes. It's positively piercing.

"And I can promise I'll be less invasive than any other scientist you meet who wants the same thing."

Looking up at the man, you can't help but believe him. Your work at Oscorp had been brief enough to not see anything too awful, but you knew that the company had a dark underbelly. Otto, at the very least, wouldn't be killing you anytime soon. You can see on his face he's expecting a response, and you shrug.

"It's not like I have a choice, is it?"

Otto chuckled humorlessly, the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Clever little thing, aren't you?"

With that, his other hand sweeps in, two large fingers gently pinching around your chest and back. It knocks the wind out of you slightly, but his grip is careful, holding you just tight enough that you wouldn't slip from his grasp. He lifts you from his other palm, gently setting you on the desk. His warm fingers stay in place until you're balanced on your feet, and then he pulls away gently.

That clinical curiosity never once leaves his eyes. He glances behind you, searching for something amid the mess of his desk. When he reaches out for it, his arm arches over you, eclipsing the light overhead. His bicep practically becomes your entire sky, and in a second it's gone, once he grabbed the ruler behind you.

"Stand straight, my dear," he says.

You know the drill well enough, you stand up just a bit straighter as you feel the ruler fall into place behind your back. It presses flush against you, the cold plastic sending a chill down your spine. Otto leans in closer, dark eyes narrowed in scrutiny at the tiny numbers marking your height. His eyebrows raise, evidently a little surprised before he leans back in his chair, the ruler clattering down onto the table.

"You gained half an inch," he says, and you can't tell how he feels about that. There's a clinical edge to his tone, covering any real emotion.

You can't quite even tell how you feel about that. Half an inch was fairly inconsequential to regular sized folk, but it was everything to you. Things had seemed a touch smaller than before, but you didn't think you had grown that much. This was the longest you'd been tiny, and knowing you were growing back - if incredibly slowly - was something of a relief.

"Huh," you can't help but say out loud, showcasing a little of your surprise. Otto quirks up an eyebrow.

"You didn't notice?" he asks, with a small tilt of his head.

You shrug, slouching a little now that you don't have to hold yourself up.

"Everything is big at this scale, there wasn't much of a visual change," you say, "It's all still overwhelming."

Otto nods, and you can see the gears in his head turning once more. It's always obvious when he's thinking hard about something - leaning in, eyes narrowed, something intense in his face. It makes you feel like a bug under a microscope, fully on display, analyzed at every angle.

"Interesting," he comments. "I imagine at a certain point it's hard to gauge anything's size accurately, like estimating building dimensions just by viewing them. I don't blame you for not noticing."

(It's kind of a little surprising how well he gets it.)

"And you also said you grow back instantaneously, correct? This isn't typical, is it?"

You take a second before nodding, thinking back of all the times you had shrunk alone in your apartment. Most of the time you'd fall asleep tiny, and wake up normal sized - it was rare you were actually awake for growing back. The few times you had, you had only short bursts, and those were generally exhausting enough to knock you out regardless.

"I'm usually asleep for it," you say, "I just wake up at my usual height. I'm always pretty sore after."

Otto chuckles.

"I'm not surprised. I can't imagine your physical form changing that much, that rapidly, would be a comfortable feeling. If you do wind up having discomfort with growing back, I can give you something for the pain."

You don't reply instantly. You merely look up at the man, trying to read into his expression, figure out what's beyond the clinical curiosity on his face. He seems passive, detached, and then he expresses concern in the same breath. It's a little confusing, and you're tired of being confused.

"So, what's your deal?"

Otto raises his eyebrows, evidently not expecting the pointed question. He doesn't speak, but merely looks at you expectantly, tilting his head slightly as he waits for you to clarify.

"So you want to figure me out like a science project, I get that," you say, and you try not to think about if it's stupid to speak so candidly to a giant supervillain, "But why be nice to me?"

Otto's expression remains blank, and he leans in closer. Both his hands come up to rest on the desk, one on either side of you, palms pressed down onto the flat surface. His long fingers make you feel fully surrounded on all sides, that feeling only increasing when his face stops just a few relative feet from yours. His brown eyes lock onto you, and when he speaks, the breath from his lips ruffles your hair like the wind.

"You think I'm being nice to you?"

You swallow thickly, nervously looking up at the man. You resist the urge to stagger backwards - any distance you could put between the two of you, he could close in a fraction of the time. This close to his face, you can see every little imperfection in his skin, every single fleck in his eyes. It makes you forget what you're saying, for just a moment.

"I-I mean, you said yourself you're being kinder than other scientists," you say, voice coming out just a bit more timid than you'd have liked it to, "And if you really didn't care, you wouldn't worry about the pain from growing. It... I just..."

You pause, tilting your gaze down to the desk. The fake wooden swirls in the wood seem positively fascinating, much more easier to look at than the giant face in front of you. You can still feel the heat off his hands, the pressure of his gaze still on you.

"I'm sorry," you say after a second, "I'm... this is weird, I've never been kidnapped before, I'm still adjusting."

Otto stares at you for a moment more, before chuckling lightly. You hear the low noise intimately, the exhale gently brushing over your skin. He draws back, his face and one of his hands retreating to give you some breathing room.

"Ultimately when I figure out your powers, you'll have figured them out as well. At that point, you'll either escape and be clever enough to utilize said powers to evade me, and that will be the end of it. Or, you could stay and help me."

Eyebrows furrowing in confusion, you look up at the man. There's nothing but sincerity in his features, something almost as surprising as his words.

"Help you?"

"Someone who can change their size at will could be quite an asset to my work. I'm more than capable of most things, but the actuators don't lend themselves to subtlety well. I think I could get some use out of someone who can be a touch more discreet when the situation calls for it."

He wanted you.... to become a supervillain?

That's honestly not what you expected.

"So... you're being nice to me so I'll help you break the law?"

Otto shrugged.

"To put it simply, I suppose."

In all honesty, it isn't that bad of an idea. You'd heard the stories of Doc Ock, you knew he was terrifying, but he wasn't the worst as far as supervillains went.

"I'm... I'm not a killer, or anything."

Otto leaned back in his chair, and he carefully drummed his fingers on the desk. Each tap sent a small shake through the wood, reverberating through your tiny frame. With the hand so close it was almost overwhelming, seeing fingers twice as tall as you are moving so swiftly, and it's all you can do to try to not look unnerved by it.

"I'm hardly one myself, dear. The actuators do the dirty work, it's not something I'd expect of you." He pauses his tapping, thinking for a moment before continuing. "The media likes to highlight my more... uncontrolled moments. My real plan is actually nothing evil at all, it's simply a device that would create unlimited clean energy. Were you to help me, I'd just need your assistance in getting some parts, materials, that sort of thing."

He seems like he's being genuine.

There's no hint of a lie in those eyes, and while you know this man is dangerous, he's no less dangerous than everything else is at this size. Even if you didn't wind up helping him down the line - his thought on you escaping when you can control your powers was a good idea, actually - it'd be smart to play along.

His hand next to you rises up, carefully and slowly. His fingers approach you, and you try not to flinch back. It's almost like watching a bus directly come at you, the size and speed overwhelming, but you can tell his every motion is meticulous. Extending his pointer finger, he gently presses it to your back. Moving it down in almost a petting motion, a small smile flits over his lips.

"However, that's not a topic of conversation until we get a better grasp on your abilities," he says, "When you're useful enough to be an asset, we'll talk then. But for now-"

"Bird cage?" you interrupt, unable to keep back a small sigh.

Otto smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling up. The rest of his fingers dart forward, carefully flexing around your frame and scooping you up once more. You tumble back into the digits, quickly held in place by his thumb as he brings you back up to eye level.

"Oh, I thought we were beyond that?" he says, "Friends, and all that."

Otto stands to his feet, further making your head spin as you're shot up relative stories by the movement. Your hands come up to brace on his thumb, well aware the loose grip he holds you in is the only thing saving you from a long fall to the ground below. Otto raises his free hand, tugging back his leather jacket. The hand holding you drifts towards the inner pocket, and your eyes widen at the sight.

"Hey!" you yell out, because you don't necessarily want to be in a bird cage, but you definitely don't want to be in his pocket right now either. Otto doesn't respond, instead he tugs the pocket open, and drops you inside.

You tumble down roughly into the cloth, and it takes a second to scramble upright. Looking up you can see a sliver of light from the opening of the pocket, swiftly extinguished when he drops his coat back against his chest. It's warm, especially pressed right up against him, held in place by the thick leather of the coat.

"There’s a few things I need to attend to tonight,” he says, and you can feel every word shake through your bones, “Thanks for the company, my dear.”

Letting out a sigh, you relax back into the pocket, letting the warmth of him wash over you. Everything shifted slightly as he started walking, and you shut your eyes. Accompanied by the booming sound of his heartbeat and your exhaustion, it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep.

[moonbeam-mothling]

Lol initially seeing this ask my brain assumed Doc Ock was the tiny and imagined that sort of scenario 👀

Like, Doc Ock in a jar and trying to escape someone’s hands like an oversized jumping spider. Doc Ock stubbornly still trying to do things for himself but getting tired sooner than he expected and reluctantly having to accept a normal sized person’s assistance. Maybe a different supervillain was the one who shrank him bc they intended to force him to do some kind of fixing/fine tuning of a nefarious machine

Do you have a part 3 to the g/t doc ock fic?

not currently! but i am open to continuing it if inspiration strikes !!

[moonbeam-mothling]

it's not that complicated | doc ock x shrinking!reader

Summary: After an incident at Oscorp, you're left with a condition where you shrink at random. You deal with this by locking yourself in your apartment while trying to figure out what to do. You didn't think anyone would hunt you down. Especially not Doc Ock.

[ao3 link]

[part two]

a/n: so this is veeeery PG-13, nothing explicit but the tension is HEAVY. reader is shrinking and this does contain G/t, and it goes heavy on the fearplay, fair warning! this also has a gender neutral reader and a very villainy Doc. all that being said, enjoy!

The rain patters on the window of your apartment, and you watch it fall straight down into the dingy alleyway below. It’s a far cry from the beauties of New York, but it’s all you have right now. Were this a month ago, you’d be down there, making a mess of the puddles and enjoying the coolness on your skin, but for now you’re barely brave enough to peek out the blinds for a second.

You pull yourself away from the bedroom window, rolling your shoulders and moving from your bedroom into the living-room-slash-kitchen combo that makes up the rest of your apartment. It's tiny, both rooms cramped, but it's home. You pause at the entry to the kitchen, staring for a second on the marks drawn on the wall.

The highest they go is a little over five and a half feet. Your original height. From that, they’re random. Vastly different increments, from your original height down to a minimum of two inches. The ones at the very bottom are faint.

(It’s hard to hold a pencil when you’re two inches tall.)

But today is a good day, and you are close enough to your original height that you feel comfortable in your own skin. Later you’d record this in your notebook, compare this with previous height shifts. As far as you figure they had something to do with your emotions, possibly your mental or physical wellbeing, but it had only been a month since the incident so there wasn’t enough data to have a concrete answer.

All you know is that shrinking has became commonplace. It varies with how small, and for how long, and you don't know what causes the spurts.

You just shrink sometimes.

You set to work on making breakfast. Bread, canned beans, and some apple juice. Nothing glamorous, but the best you could get delivered to your door, and all things that would keep if you shrunk too small to put the leftovers in the fridge after. Right now, half of what you make is for breakfast, and half will go in the counter underneath the sink, a stash in case your height dropped too far to cook or reach anything else.

Food eventually gathered, you sit down on your sofa, enjoying your meal in silence. The TV wasn’t worth turning on, the noise would eventually become annoying if you were unable to reach the remote to turn it off. So you go over a mental checklist of things to do while you still have the height to do them instead.

You need to make another grocery order, and restock the small stores of water you had in the kitchen cabinet. There’s a pile of doll clothes that need a little bit of tailoring to fit your smallest size, and you wanted to download a few audio books for your Walkman that you keep in a small bookshelf low to the floor, that you use as a bedroom when your bed is too tall to reach.

(On your good days, you prepare for your bad days.)

You had been a secretarial intern at Oscorp, and even that was generous for your job title. At most, you ran around gathering the coffee orders of various asshole scientists, and occasionally helped tidy up paperwork here and there. The chemical spill you were involved in was entirely your fault, despite it just being one test tube splattered on your arm when you were trying to tidy someone's trash left from lunch.

No one saw it, and no one saw when you shrunk.

The world grew around you at a rapid rate, vertigo making the fluorescent lights dance around in your vision. By the time you could even gather what had happened, you were mere inches tall in the lab, surrounded by a towering desk that could put a city block to shame. You had barely managed to sprint underneath it and hole up somewhere safe before you lost consciousness.

You woke up normal sized, cramped and crammed under an average size desk.

You went home. You did not go back to Oscorp. And you have not left your apartment since.

(Dwindling savings and agoraphobia are the least of your concerns. You don't want to turn into Harry Osborn’s personal lab rat, another little scientific curiosity for those scientists to pick apart.)

(You’d figure how to manage this, and then you’d get as far away from New York as you could, and you’d start over.)

(But for now, you stay in your apartment, where you don’t have to worry about being stepped on or stolen or dissected.)

Despite not being hungry, you finish your breakfast. Judging by the darkness from the windows, it isn’t even close to morning, midnight more likely, but it’s a meal and that’s enough, and you’ll call it breakfast if you please. Tossing the paper plate onto the coffee table - easier than attempting to wash dishes and shrinking midway, nearly flooding the apartment, been there - you lean back into your worn sofa. You shut your eyes, allowing yourself a moment of respite.

In the calm stillness of the night, it’s very easy to hear your bedroom window creak open.

You sit up, eyes snapping to your still cracked bedroom door. There’s the slightest possibility that it was just the wind making the old building creak, but all hopes are dashed away the seconds you hear boots on the wooden floorboards.

A small shiver runs down your spine.

You rise from your spot on the sofa, eyes darting to the front door on the other side of the living room to your left. Part of you wants to sprint out, but you lock up in fear. Outside meant rain, animals, pedestrians, shrinking out there would be a death sentence. The footsteps grow closer. A lump forms in your throat. You can hear your bedroom door creak open.

It takes all your resolve to drag your eyes to the looming figure.

Doc Ock fills the frame of the doorway, strolling into the living room like he owns it. His boots are heavy and thick on the floor, and he tilts his glasses down with a gloved hand just a tad, brown eyes sweeping over the tiny apartment. Even if you didn’t know who he was, he cuts a terrifying figure.

His eyes land on you, and his lips curl up into a smirk. He lets out a soft chuckle, stepping closer to you. You edge back, moving yourself in the direction of the kitchen, not once taking your eyes off the super villain invading your apartment.

“You know, when I heard there was an incident at Oscorp, I almost didn’t look into it,” he says. He speaks conversationally, as if you’re an old friend meeting him for coffee, not the owner of the apartment he just invaded. “They’re so uptight, trying to steal any data from them is near impossible.”

You don’t stop moving until your back hits the far wall of the kitchen, the wrinkled wallpaper rough against your thin tank top.

“I-I,” you stutter out, unsure of what you’re even trying to say. Your throat feels like it’s being constricted, brain refusing to work in tandem to make some demand that will make this man leave .

He steps closer, entering the kitchen. There’s a solid few feet of space between the two of you, but you still have to tilt your head back slightly to look him in the eyes, even at your full height.

“But when I found out it was just a helpless intern? Who didn’t even tell anyone?”

He smiles, taking full delight in your shaking form. He lifts a hand to pull off his sunglasses, folding them and tucking them into the inside of his leather coat, and steps closer.

Otto invades your personal space, stopping just a few inches away from you. His eyes look your form up and down, narrowed in scrutiny, reading you like a physics textbook. He’s roughly half a foot taller than you, putting you about eye level with his jaw, and you throw your gaze down at your feet rather than his intense stare.

“Tell me what happened.”

His voice is solid and low, the sharp command a contrast from the smile that was on his lips just a second ago. His face shifts into something stern, leaving absolutely no room for argument.

“It was j-just a vial,” you stutter out, “I, uh, it spilled on my arm, and I washed it off. Nothing happened.”

The words slip from your lips before you can fully think of the ramifications of lying to a supervillain.

The alternative, though, being shrunken in the hands of Otto Octavius, feels infinitely more terrifying.

Otto steps away, turning to look around your cramped kitchen. He takes in the small space.

“It would be a lot easier if you would just be honest with me, my dear,” he says. He lets out a small sigh, an indication that whatever happened next would be your fault if you didn’t comply.

There’s a shifting underneath his leather coat, and a second later the actuators unfurl themselves from the slit cut in the back. The metal tentacles wind and twist, filling whatever sparse space in the kitchen that isn’t otherwise occupied by Otto. He doesn’t even face you, still investigating the kitchen, but one of the tentacles does wind its way towards you. The pointed tip presses to your chest, skating upwards over your throat to place itself at your chin, tilting your head up slightly.

Otto pauses before the set of markings on the wall. He studies them, his face made of stone, and you can’t help the way your breath hitches in your throat, catching on the metal pressed into it.

The actuator retreats at that, and a small, sly look crosses his lips. His eyes dart to you, and he looks positively delighted .

“Oh, now that’s intriguing,” he says. With that he turns, stepping towards you, rapidly closing the distance.

You shut your eyes, pressing yourself into the kitchen wall as if it would absorb you right there. You can feel his presence draw closer, until the warmth of his body is directly in front of you, the smell of metal and cigars hitting your nose.

Gloved fingertips grip your chin, and your eyes fly open at the sudden contact.

Directly in front of you is Otto’s broad chest. Just a second ago you were eye level with his chin, and now he has to tilt your head fully back in his grasp for you to make contact with his eyes. The fingertips around your chin are large and firm, and he lifts up his other hand to pin it on the wall beside your head.

If you had to guess, you were a touch over five feet tall, if even that. Otto was a big man before, but the loss of even just a few inches make his presence all the more consuming.

He leans in, peering into your eyes, before lifting up his hand from your chin to tug off his glove with his teeth. He drops it in his pocket, and returns two fingers to your neck to take your pulse.

“This is fascinating ,” he says, the whisper sounding fully like he’s speaking to himself and not to you. You feel like a bug under a microscope, and the fingers on your neck jerk into your jawline as a few more inches dissipate from your height.

Otto’s eyes widen, the smile finding its way on his lips once more. His other hand braces up on the wall as well, eyes darting to compare where your height was a moment ago to now.

(Ever a scientist at heart, and now with a brand new specimen to study.)

“When did this start?” he asks.

Your lips part, and you can’t bring yourself to speak. The doctor doesn’t take kindly to your silence, and removes his hands from the wall, standing to his full height. You’re easily under five feet now, and your heart stutters when you realize how massive this man is compared to you.

“As s-soon as it spilled on me,” you choke out, deciding to keep on his good side. “It comes and goes.”

His face doesn’t waver from it’s now critical look, still analyzing every inch of your form.

“Are there triggers? What instigates it?”

“I tried to keep notes,” you eke out, with a small gesture towards the coffee table in the living room. He stares down at you for a moment, eyes still narrowed in scrutiny.

Unable to tear your eyes off of him, you watch as he moves out of your space once more. He turns, stepping into the living room, and begins rooting through the belongings on your coffee table. Eventually he finds the faded green notebook amid the mess of paper plates and to-go cups, and begins to flip through it.

He scans the pages with rapid precision, flipping through them as he takes in the notes on what you ate, how you felt, other health symptoms.

“A brilliant try,” he says. He turns to you, and he tucks the notebook into his leather jacket. “Inconclusive, nowhere near the work I’d expect of an Oscorp employee, but there might be something of use.”

Your eyes dart to the front door, behind Otto from your position. Part of you wonders if you could manage to race past him, take your chances outside, but the six limbs are a touch of a deterrent. As if reading your mind, he moves back to you, slowly stepping closer and blocking any path of escape.

“Of course, we’ll have to do some tests,” he says.

He leans down to make his face level with yours, and his smile is nothing but sinister. His hand lifts up, much larger than it was a minute ago. A thick finger traces over your cheek, making you feel all the smaller as you realize his hand is larger than your face.

“But I can’t wait to figure you out.”

His low voice sends a drop of ice down your spine. This time you feel the shrinking more than see it, your skin tightening, your joints groaning uncomfortably. It hurts in large spurts, and you screw your eyes shut as things begin to twist in your vision, your entire world thrown off by vertigo.

When you open them, blinking your eyes to bat away the darkness at the edge of your sight, you’re eye level with Otto’s stomach. The ribbed tank top underneath his coat clings to his wide frame, showing off the curve of his stomach where it hangs over the metal brace cinched tight around him. You can see his breath rise and fall in his chest as you drag your eyes all the way up to meet him. Two and a half feet of difference between you, and he feels like a mountain before you.

(And when sheer delight coats his features, you drop an inch or two more.)

“Are you scared, my dear?” he asks.

He doesn’t bother leaning down this time. His hand comes up to press on your stomach, the span of it large enough to wrap around your waist slightly. Otto pushes you into the wall, and you feel the ground leaving your feet as he slides you up against it.

The feeling of another human’s hand covering the span of your entire front with enough room to spare to grab you is downright terrifying. His fingers are big enough to be tree branches, and even as you squirm, their grip is far too solid for you to pry loose.

Otto pins you against the wall at his face level, and he lifts up his other hand to brace it on the wall next to you, carefully studying his hand in comparison to your head. Just a moment ago it was barely bigger than your face, now it utterly dwarfed your head. The forearm along the side of you obscures that side of your vision entirely.

You bring your hands up to grip the wrist of the hand around your waist, attempting to pry at it. He doesn’t even budge a millimeter, his strength massively outweighing yours. You can feel your fingers dwindling in comparison to his hand, the texture of his leather glove getting rougher as your size decreased compared to it.

“That's it, isn't it? You're frightened.”

He practically growls , his voice low and throaty. It makes you still entirely, turning your face back up to his. Leaning in close, he consumes your entire vision, filling more and more as you feel your size dwindle from your form.

Otto’s hand darts back from your waist, and as soon as a small scream leaves your lips something snatches the back of your shirt. Otto’s hand returns once more, this time clasped over your mouth as you dangle from the claws of one of the actuators.

He tuts at you, squeezing his hand over the lower half of your face lightly. It covers your mouth, your jaw, and there’s plenty extra of the massive palm. The leather is warm and bitter on your lips.

“Be good for me,” he says. His voice is soft, coming out like a gentle request, but the sharp look in his eyes threatens you to dare not disobey. “Be quiet, please, my dear.”

You try to nod, but can’t even budge under the strong grip of the doctor. He feels the miniscule movement, though, and releases your face a moment later.

He steps through the kitchen, the actuator swinging you around by the back of your shirt. None too gently, it pushes you against the markings you have on the wall, dropping you down to your feet. You stumble, barely able to catch your balance, before Otto’s hand returns.

His bare hand is warm, covering your entire shoulder and some of your bicep as he pushes you into the wall.

“Not even three feet tall,” he mutters. His grip on you loosens slightly, pushing you to the side as he leans in to inspect the markings on the wall. His eyes trail downwards, landing at the lowest heights you have marked. His gloved hand comes up to trace the faint pencil mark, standing at a proud two inches.

With him momentarily distracted, you step backwards. You edge back into the living room, trying to ignore the dizzying feel of everything expanding in the slightest increments. The gradual shrinking hadn’t stopped since he arrived, hopefully no more spurts would happen. You’re halfway into the living room, and cast a quick glance to the front door.

One of the actuators slam into the floor in front of the door, sending splinters of wood shattering into the air. You flinch violently, and in the same motion your height crashes down another foot, the metal arched around you rapidly growing as you rapidly shrink.

The doctor rises to his full height, and even with the distance between the two of you, it’s obvious you barely reach his mid-thigh right now. He steps closer towards you, each one of his legs bigger and thicker around than your entire body. It’s like watching a building move, and you can feel the ground lightly tremor from your position much closer to it.

“There’s nowhere for you to go,” he says, his voice filled with a touch of mock sympathy. “I doubt you could even reach the handle to the door.”

The actuator behind your back, blocking the way to the door, darts up, pushing its tip into your back. The sudden shove causes you to stumble, the jolt of fear instigating another shrinking spurt. Your body compresses in on yourself, and it’s all you can do to look up to Otto, watching his figure rise higher and higher above you.

He smiles.

As soon as you can muster the strength to move, you sprint for the direction of your bedroom. The floorboards seemingly grow under your bare feet as you move, the wood grain getting rougher on your skin as you get smaller. By the time you make it to the door you’re a little less than a foot tall, and it takes all of your strength to shove the door closed.

(You don’t hear footsteps. You hear a chuckle, low and satisfied.)

(He isn’t chasing you.)

(Because there’s nowhere for you to run.)

Even with the distance and the door shut, you still dwindle down. You don’t stop moving, knowing you have to get as far as you could before running will get you nowhere. Watching your bed and scattered piles of dirty clothes turning into monoliths would just terrify you further, so you don't linger on anything as you dart for shelter.

When you land at your final height of two inches tall, you barely make it to the nightstand beside your bed. The door to the bedroom slowly creaks open, and you fling yourself underneath the nightstand. A haggard cough escapes your lips as you inhale dust and stale air, and you shove your arm over your mouth to silence it.

It’s quiet.

You can still hear the rain pattering outside, only interrupted by the occasional clap of thunder. The lighting in the room is dark, even darker underneath the cramped nightstand. The swirls in the grain of the fake wood are taller than you are.

At this height, the closest thing of comparison you had was that you were the size of a battery, or two quarters laid lengthwise. You’d measured yourself against things multiple times in the long days spent alone and tiny. You knew how being small felt.

(But being small and hunted down?)

You hear his boots creak softly on the floorboards, as if he’s trying to move as silently as possible through the dark room. You push yourself a touch more into the shadows, hoping he didn’t have time to catch sight of you before he entered.

(It’s goddamn terrifying. )

You try to listen to his footsteps over the sound of your own heart in your ears, trying to keep track of where he’s in your room.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. His voice rumbles like thunder. It couldn’t be more than a low tone, but at your size, his voice sounds like a movie theater speaker system directly in your ears. “It would be best for you to come out now.”

Even if you wanted to heed his words, you’re firmly rooted to the spot. If you could shrink anymore, you’d be downright microscopic right now with the fear flooding your veins. His footsteps draw closer, and you lift up a hand to your lips to stifle the gasp when his boots stop before the nightstand.

You don't even come up to the top of the toes of his boots. The floorboards creak underneath him, the sound deafening at your close proximity. Fingers dig into the flesh of your cheek as you try to keep yourself from uttering a single noise.

Otto sighs. Disappointed, tired, and his foot taps on the ground slightly in impatience. The miniscule movement sends tremors through your small frame.

A sound like the world tearing apart erupts above you. Metal crashes into wood, and the sight of the building sized dresser being lifted effortlessly by a massive metal tentacle is so incomprehensible you can barely process it. The actuator tosses aside the nightstand like it’s nothing, and you’re left collapsed at the feet of Otto Octavius.

It’s all you can do to bring yourself to look up at him. He towers over you, looking like he could loom over the Empire State Building itself, unfathomably large. When his brown eyes spot you, his familiar smile returns.

You scramble to your feet, but before you can even move, two tree-trunk sized fingers are pressed around you, one to your stomach, one to your back. The ground rapidly falls from your feet as his gloved hand lifts you high in the air. All attempts at struggling are stilled the second you get a glance of the drop below, seemingly hundreds of feet down.

Otto shifts you so you’re sitting in his palm, the length of it easily twice your height. The leather is warm on your skin, and you pull your knees up to your chest, as if making yourself smaller would make you less of a target. His towering fingers arch slightly over you, preventing you from falling off, but it feels more akin to cage bars looming threateningly.

He draws you close to his face until it’s the only thing that fits in your line of sight. From this close up you can see all of the intimate details. The faint hint of stubble on his cheeks, the small smile lines in the corners of his mouth, the sheer curiosity in his eyes as he visually devours you.

He doesn’t take his gaze off of you, analyzing every single centimeter of your body. The heat of his breath washes over you, and you can feel the rapid pulse in his palm betraying his calm demeanor.

Otto lifts his ungloved hand, placing the pad of his index finger under your chin. The tip of his finger could easily cover your entire face, the finger itself twice your height, but he angles your face upward with the most delicate motion.

He takes in your tiny features, leaning in closer to examine you further. The tremble of your chest, the terrified expression on your face, your eyes unable to look anywhere but his.

“Fascinating,” he whispers. The word washes over you, his voice surrounding you like warm thunder.

He stands up straight, giving you a bit of reprieve from the close proximity, but only for a moment. His free hand tugs at the collar of his jacket, and he pulls you close to his expansive chest. Catching your eyes still on him, he gives you the smallest wink and the smuggest smile before you’re sent plummeting through the air once more.

You land in something warm and soft, cloth to one side and leather to the other. It only takes a second for you to figure out he dropped you into his coat pocket, and as he lets it go to fall back against his body, you slam into his chest.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says. He doesn’t have to say the words as more than a whisper for them to reverberate throughout your entire body, every noise in his chest shaking you down to the bone.

The world swings into motion as he starts walking, and it’s all you can do to latch onto the thick fabric. His heartbeat is loud against you, pressed right to his soft chest, and you can feel the warm body heat rolling off of him.

He gives a final pat to the pocket, large fingers pressing into your trembling figure to make sure you’re situated, before he vanishes into the night.

[moonbeam-mothling]

it's not that difficult | doc ock x shrunken!reader part two

[link to part one]

[ao3 link]

Summary: It's been a week since you shrunk down in front of Otto. One week in a bird cage, of being a lab rat, and you decide it's time to escape. Of course it won't be that easy.

a/n: this was written at the request of @miniemew! it's a continuation of my previous Otto x tiny fic, and it was a blast to write. reader is gender neutral, and this goes heavy on the fearplay. that said, I hope y'all enjoy!

The past week has been a strange mix of awful and mundane.

And the open bird cage before you seems almost more like a test than a blessing.

Tests. That's what the past week has been. Otto had swept you away, into some dingy apartment that looked far too normal to belong to a supervillain. Still stuck at the unimpressive height of two inches tall, there was nothing you could do when he dropped you in a bird cage before vanishing. Despite his intense curiosity, the man had other things on his plate, evidently. He was gone for most of the nights and mornings, but in the evenings, he always had a few minutes to spare for you.

For studying you, more accurately.

Checking your vitals, measuring your height, maybe an endurance test on a hamster wheel - which was now more annoying rather than outright embarrassing. On one occasion he had drawn some blood with a needle that seemed too tiny to exist. Whatever data he had gleaned from you was carefully recorded in a notebook, before he returned you to the bird cage.

(To be fair, it actually is a pretty nice bird cage.)

It's silver, the sturdy bars just thick enough that you can't bend them out of the way, and spaced too close together to even think about slipping through. The metal bottom is covered with some fabric, an old shirt if you had to guess, which actually was quite comfortable to sleep on. The entire set up is suspended over his desk, with a relatively large door that latches tightly from the outside.

Except, this time, he hadn't quite latched it all the way.

Otto's gone right now, and it's night. If his pattern over the past week continues, he'll be gone for a few more hours at least. It takes a world of courage to even cross the bird cage over to the door, anxiety blooming in your chest. The latch was usually unreachable, but with it barely in its slot, it could spring free if you jiggle it just right. The fall to the desk would be survivable - Otto had sussed out that your shrinking had left you with some enhanced durability. From there you'd just have to find somewhere to hide, until your body finally decided to return to its normal height.

(It's as good a plan as any.)

(And frankly, it was the only plan you had. So, may as well.)

Taking in a shaky breath, you carefully take hold of the door, giving it a slow, tedious push up and out. The latch slips loose of its hold, and the door to the cage swings open with an audible creak. You cringe at the sound, eyes immediately flying up to scan over the messy office, as if Otto would conjure out of the shadows at the faintest noise. You stay perched at the door for a moment, listening carefully. There's absolutely no response - no movement, no distant sounds from further in the apartment.

After gauging the safety for a second, you decide to proceed. You jump down onto the desk, not giving yourself time to overthink it. The desk is chaos, loose wires and stray bolts scattered about, almost every surface covered with some form of scribbled down notes or blueprints. Organization is evidently not Otto's strong suit, and it takes a minute to navigate around pencils and bolts to the back of the desk. There's a small gap where it meets the wall, the cord from the desk lamp falling down to the ground behind it.

You don't really have time to weigh the small range of options you have right now, so you decide the cord is as good a move to get to the floor as any. It's just big enough to hold onto like a rope, and you carefully work on climbing down from the desk, ignoring the massive drop beneath you. With enhanced durability you wouldn't die from it, but it still wouldn't be pleasant. You'd scaled even higher climbs in your home before, but under less dire circumstances. The fear that Otto might return soundly trumps any anxiety over climbing down the cord.

You make it to the dusty floor soon enough, pausing for just a moment to catch your breath. Your heart is positively drumming in your chest, the sharp buzz of adrenaline running under your skin. You only rest for a second, though, before continuing onward, not wanting to linger any more than necessary.

The apartment was more of a workspace than an actual home, something you notice while navigating over and around the multitude of mechanical parts on the floor. It takes a minute to get your bearings, trying to find the door beyond all the scattered clutter, but you eventually find it. Out the office, down the hall, out the front door, and you'd be home free.

Escape is the only thing you have on your mind, as you swiftly creep through the messy workspace. It doesn't take too long to reach the door, the gap underneath is just big enough to squeeze through, out into the hall. The carpet fibers come up to your knees, making walking just a touch more challenging, but that's one of the last things on your mind right now. Turning right, you see the looming front door in the distance, like a beacon of hope. You immediately begin jogging towards it, a small buzzing bit of excitement starting to grow in your chest. Relief washes over you as escape gets closer and closer.

A heavy crash breaks the stillness in the air, and you immediately run into something sharp and hot. You stumble back like a bug bouncing off a windshield, falling to the ground. In front of you is an actuator, the massive claw clenching down into the carpeted ground, just a few sparse inches away from you. The actuator flexes slightly, metal whirring softly as you hear a soft chuckle behind and far above you. Paralyzed in place, the warmth of excitement immediately shifting into chilling dread, it takes everything you have to look over your shoulder.

Otto stands behind you, with a soft smile on his lips that only he could make look sinister. He lifts a hand, waving his fingers at you lightly like you were just an acquaintance at a grocery store, and not a captive in the middle of an escape attempt. You have to tilt your head all the way back to even get a glimpse of his dark eyes, the sharp curiosity in them sending another pang of fear down your spine.

The actuator rises up, causing you to whip your head back towards it, half prepared for the thing to snatch you up in its claw. It doesn't, though, instead it pulls back further and retreats behind Otto.

He looks down at you expectantly.

"Try again."

You stare at him for a moment and only just a moment, before scrambling to your feet and sprinting like your life depends on it. The drag of the carpet fibers slows you down a little, and you fully ignore it, intent on putting as much distance between you and the looming villain as you possibly can.

(But... that's what he wants, isn't it?)

(A chase.)

Heart pounding furiously in your chest, you zoom down the hallway, lungs nearly bursting from exertion. Over the rush of the wind in your ears you can't hear a single sound behind you, and you don't dare turn back to look. You make it to the very end of the hall before you hear the first footstep crash down behind you.

The living room is far less cluttered than the office, leaving nothing to hide behind, no last resort. The carpet transitioned into hardwood, making running just a touch easier. You stay focused on the sliver of light from under the front door, and not the sound of Otto casually following you, covering more distance in one footstep than you did in ten seconds.

Risking a glance over your shoulder, you find Otto practically on top of you. He'd closed the gap in no time, with that same awful smirk on his lips. The actuators are poised behind them, all their glowing eyes are trained on you. Otto's hands are carefully folded in front of him - making no move to grab you even as your speed slows down in the slightest.

(He's toying with you.)

(And the outcome of this was likely predetermined long ago.)

Without warning, a heavy boot slams down in front of you. You stumble, the small quake of his foot hitting the wooden floor being enough to knock you off your feet. The boot's angled carefully, just far enough to miss you. It's practically bus sized, utterly dwarfing your minuscule frame.

You stay still for only a moment, frozen with the icy fear that floods your veins. A distant chuckle rumbles overhead like thunder.

"Last chance," Otto says, from far, far above.

Despite the overwhelming futility, you scramble to your feet, quickly looping around the shoe in your path. It doesn't move, thank god, and you continue sprinting to the front door. Every bone in your body is screaming out for rest, but you don't dare stop.

The gap underneath the door gets closer and closer, as close as the booming footsteps behind you do. A foot away, ten inches, five, almost there .

And then Otto slams an actuator down, the tremor of his metal claw on the ground knocking you straight off of your feet once more. You hit the floorboards hard, heart pounding sent into overdrive as you catch sight of the looming claw in front of you.

Scrambling upright again, you shuffle backwards from it. The claw darts up, pointed prongs of metal now directly facing you. There'd be no way to run past it without running into it, so you dart to the right, further into the living room. There's practically no energy left in your body at all, lungs and limbs burning from exertion, and you don't dare stop. The overwhelming sound of creaking metal follows you, and there's a harsh yank on the back of your shirt as you're swept off the ground by the actuator.

You struggle, although the grip it has on the back of your shirt makes it far too tight to slip out of. Fingers scrambling up, you hook them between the collar of the shirt and your neck, trying to ease up some of the pressure.

Something eclipses the light overhead, and you barely have time to process the giant hand in your vision before it swallows you up. Otto snatches you in a tight fist, arms pinned immobile to your sides. He raises you up to his eye level, at a speed that makes the whole world swirl around you, vertigo in overdrive. His sharp brown eyes light up once you're in sight, a crinkle around the corners giving away his excitement.

Despite the overwhelming helplessness, you struggle, attempting in vain to loosen the hold of his fingers wrapped around you. His hand didn't budge a centimeter, if anything his grip tightened in the slightest amount, just enough to knock a little air out of your lungs. Otto doesn't say a word, he merely turns to the sofa in the living room, quickly crossing over to take a seat. A notebook is perched on the coffee table, and he flips to a half-filled page with his free hand, quickly writing something down.

"Was... was this a test?" You sputter out, half convinced the man would ignore you entirely. Your voice is strained, still unable to get a proper lungful of air with his fingers around you, but his brown eyes do flit to you for a moment.

Otto lowers his fist to the table, loosening it and roughly dropping you onto the coffee table. You land on top of a stack of sticky notes, and you don't dare move. Even if you wanted to attempt to run again, you're far too exhausted to even try. You let yourself collapse, still trying to catch your breath.

"Of course," Otto answers, not looking up from the page he was still scrawling on.

He eventually glances at you, leaning in slightly closer. Otto fills your entire vision, his looming for making you feel like you were in the front row of a movie theater. A little bit of brown hair fell into those dark eyes, which flicked down as he carefully took your form in.

"I wanted to see how fast you could run," he says, smiling once more. His voice is polite and even, as if he didn't just admit to terrifying you on purpose. He turns back down to his notes, still jotting a few things down. "Obviously, your functions are affected when I monitor you closely for tests. I wanted something a little less structured than a hamster wheel."

He finishes writing, carefully setting down his pen on the table. His eyes snap back to you, looking at your face carefully. You're still breathless and sore, trying to gather yourself mentally and physically from the escape attempt, and you feel absolutely pinned under his gaze.

"You couldn't really have thought you were going to escape?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

"I... I kinda did, yeah," you reply. You'd never snapped at him, never raised your voice, but the adrenaline still buzzing in your system and the absolute fury and exhaustion you feel can't help but spill out a little into your tone. "Even if I got caught, I had to try."

Otto nods, surprisingly accepting your answer with ease. He leans back on the sofa slightly, actuators draping over the back of it. His eyes are unwavering, still pointedly trained on you.

"Admirable, if not reckless," he says, "I must say though, you're far safer with me than you would be out there. I can't imagine what Oscorp would do if they got their grubby hands on you."

Pushing yourself up from the sticky notes, you rise to your feet, crossing your arms over your chest. Despite how correct he probably was, that wasn’t his call to make.

"Can't be worse than a goddamn hamster wheel," you mutter. Despite keeping your voice low, Otto does catch it, and he laughs brightly. He almost seems harmless for a second.

"I can assure you, my dear, they would not be as kind as me. I'm curious, but I do not intend to do you any harm. Other scientists, well, their methods of discovery aren't always so kind towards their specimens."

You narrow your eyes at the man, trying to gauge if you should believe him. There was no doubt that Oscorp would have been a nightmare if they had found you, and in all honesty, living at the apartment wasn't going to work out long term. You didn't need confirmation that the world outside was dangerous, but you still wonder how honest he was really being.

"You won't hurt me, but you'll keep me in a bird cage for a week?"

Otto shrugs, unbothered by the accusation.

"Can’t risk you running off and hurting yourself," he says.

He leans in once more, slowly bringing a hand down in front of you. The same one that snatched you up earlier. You look at it warily, waiting for it to grab you in a fist, pinch the back of your shirt and dangle you, but he doesn't. He simply lays it level with the sticky notes, right in front of you. You can feel the heat off of his skin, see the shift of his muscles as he waits.

"May I?"

(He'd never asked if he could hold you before.)

(You can see his fingers twitch in impatience, and decide not to push his kindness too far.)

You gingerly step onto the man's calloused palm, feeling his muscles and tendons twitch underneath you. It's a little hard to keep your balance, but he brings his thumb up, something for you to brace your hands on as he raises his palm to his face. It's far closer than when he was looming over the table, all the minuscule details on his face magnified.

"As far as I'm aware of, you're the only one like you in existence," he says. He lowered his voice for you, the usually brash and proud tone now just a quiet whisper. It was still overwhelming regardless. "I wouldn't allow harm to come your way, that would entirely deprive me of figuring you out. I am still just a physicist at heart, dear, you cannot expect me to not be fascinated by a person who can change their bodily mass on a whim."

You can feel the heat coming off his hand, the shift of his thumb under your palms. From this close, every time he exhales it ruffles your hair in the slightest. His eyes are a mix of a dozen brown shades, still locked firmly on you, and you shift your weight from foot to foot.

"It's not on a whim," you correct.

(If it was on a whim, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now.)

"But it could be," Otto says, "Someday."

With that, he rises to his feet. The thumb you're holding onto gently pushing you back, knocking you off your feet and pressing you into his other fingers, coming to rest around your waist like a makeshift seat belt. A small noise of protest escapes your lips, ignored as Otto takes up his notes and walks back to the office.

(It takes him just a few seconds.)

(All the agonizing minutes you had spent running, trying to cross that distance, and he closes it in just a few seconds.)

Otto enters the office, quickly reaching the desk and taking a seat. You half expect him to immediately return you to the bird cage. He doesn't, though, fingers shifting you slightly in his palm, so he can rest his elbow on the desk, leaving you sitting in his hand at eye level. His thumb stays locked over you, like a heavy weighted blanket in your lap.

(You don't think you could get it to budge, even if you tried.)

"You honestly know less about your shrinking than I do, and I've barely begun to scratch the surface," Otto says. He speaks with a certainty that's just a little grating. "Your powers are incredibly unstable now, but there's no indication that it will always be that way. And even so, I still want to know how it works, what makes you tick."

He looks down at you, with that familiar glint in his eyes. It's positively piercing.

"And I can promise I'll be less invasive than any other scientist you meet who wants the same thing."

Looking up at the man, you can't help but believe him. Your work at Oscorp had been brief enough to not see anything too awful, but you knew that the company had a dark underbelly. Otto, at the very least, wouldn't be killing you anytime soon. You can see on his face he's expecting a response, and you shrug.

"It's not like I have a choice, is it?"

Otto chuckled humorlessly, the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Clever little thing, aren't you?"

With that, his other hand sweeps in, two large fingers gently pinching around your chest and back. It knocks the wind out of you slightly, but his grip is careful, holding you just tight enough that you wouldn't slip from his grasp. He lifts you from his other palm, gently setting you on the desk. His warm fingers stay in place until you're balanced on your feet, and then he pulls away gently.

That clinical curiosity never once leaves his eyes. He glances behind you, searching for something amid the mess of his desk. When he reaches out for it, his arm arches over you, eclipsing the light overhead. His bicep practically becomes your entire sky, and in a second it's gone, once he grabbed the ruler behind you.

"Stand straight, my dear," he says.

You know the drill well enough, you stand up just a bit straighter as you feel the ruler fall into place behind your back. It presses flush against you, the cold plastic sending a chill down your spine. Otto leans in closer, dark eyes narrowed in scrutiny at the tiny numbers marking your height. His eyebrows raise, evidently a little surprised before he leans back in his chair, the ruler clattering down onto the table.

"You gained half an inch," he says, and you can't tell how he feels about that. There's a clinical edge to his tone, covering any real emotion.

You can't quite even tell how you feel about that. Half an inch was fairly inconsequential to regular sized folk, but it was everything to you. Things had seemed a touch smaller than before, but you didn't think you had grown that much. This was the longest you'd been tiny, and knowing you were growing back - if incredibly slowly - was something of a relief.

"Huh," you can't help but say out loud, showcasing a little of your surprise. Otto quirks up an eyebrow.

"You didn't notice?" he asks, with a small tilt of his head.

You shrug, slouching a little now that you don't have to hold yourself up.

"Everything is big at this scale, there wasn't much of a visual change," you say, "It's all still overwhelming."

Otto nods, and you can see the gears in his head turning once more. It's always obvious when he's thinking hard about something - leaning in, eyes narrowed, something intense in his face. It makes you feel like a bug under a microscope, fully on display, analyzed at every angle.

"Interesting," he comments. "I imagine at a certain point it's hard to gauge anything's size accurately, like estimating building dimensions just by viewing them. I don't blame you for not noticing."

(It's kind of a little surprising how well he gets it.)

"And you also said you grow back instantaneously, correct? This isn't typical, is it?"

You take a second before nodding, thinking back of all the times you had shrunk alone in your apartment. Most of the time you'd fall asleep tiny, and wake up normal sized - it was rare you were actually awake for growing back. The few times you had, you had only short bursts, and those were generally exhausting enough to knock you out regardless.

"I'm usually asleep for it," you say, "I just wake up at my usual height. I'm always pretty sore after."

Otto chuckles.

"I'm not surprised. I can't imagine your physical form changing that much, that rapidly, would be a comfortable feeling. If you do wind up having discomfort with growing back, I can give you something for the pain."

You don't reply instantly. You merely look up at the man, trying to read into his expression, figure out what's beyond the clinical curiosity on his face. He seems passive, detached, and then he expresses concern in the same breath. It's a little confusing, and you're tired of being confused.

"So, what's your deal?"

Otto raises his eyebrows, evidently not expecting the pointed question. He doesn't speak, but merely looks at you expectantly, tilting his head slightly as he waits for you to clarify.

"So you want to figure me out like a science project, I get that," you say, and you try not to think about if it's stupid to speak so candidly to a giant supervillain, "But why be nice to me?"

Otto's expression remains blank, and he leans in closer. Both his hands come up to rest on the desk, one on either side of you, palms pressed down onto the flat surface. His long fingers make you feel fully surrounded on all sides, that feeling only increasing when his face stops just a few relative feet from yours. His brown eyes lock onto you, and when he speaks, the breath from his lips ruffles your hair like the wind.

"You think I'm being nice to you?"

You swallow thickly, nervously looking up at the man. You resist the urge to stagger backwards - any distance you could put between the two of you, he could close in a fraction of the time. This close to his face, you can see every little imperfection in his skin, every single fleck in his eyes. It makes you forget what you're saying, for just a moment.

"I-I mean, you said yourself you're being kinder than other scientists," you say, voice coming out just a bit more timid than you'd have liked it to, "And if you really didn't care, you wouldn't worry about the pain from growing. It... I just..."

You pause, tilting your gaze down to the desk. The fake wooden swirls in the wood seem positively fascinating, much more easier to look at than the giant face in front of you. You can still feel the heat off his hands, the pressure of his gaze still on you.

"I'm sorry," you say after a second, "I'm... this is weird, I've never been kidnapped before, I'm still adjusting."

Otto stares at you for a moment more, before chuckling lightly. You hear the low noise intimately, the exhale gently brushing over your skin. He draws back, his face and one of his hands retreating to give you some breathing room.

"Ultimately when I figure out your powers, you'll have figured them out as well. At that point, you'll either escape and be clever enough to utilize said powers to evade me, and that will be the end of it. Or, you could stay and help me."

Eyebrows furrowing in confusion, you look up at the man. There's nothing but sincerity in his features, something almost as surprising as his words.

"Help you?"

"Someone who can change their size at will could be quite an asset to my work. I'm more than capable of most things, but the actuators don't lend themselves to subtlety well. I think I could get some use out of someone who can be a touch more discreet when the situation calls for it."

He wanted you.... to become a supervillain?

That's honestly not what you expected.

"So... you're being nice to me so I'll help you break the law?"

Otto shrugged.

"To put it simply, I suppose."

In all honesty, it isn't that bad of an idea. You'd heard the stories of Doc Ock, you knew he was terrifying, but he wasn't the worst as far as supervillains went.

"I'm... I'm not a killer, or anything."

Otto leaned back in his chair, and he carefully drummed his fingers on the desk. Each tap sent a small shake through the wood, reverberating through your tiny frame. With the hand so close it was almost overwhelming, seeing fingers twice as tall as you are moving so swiftly, and it's all you can do to try to not look unnerved by it.

"I'm hardly one myself, dear. The actuators do the dirty work, it's not something I'd expect of you." He pauses his tapping, thinking for a moment before continuing. "The media likes to highlight my more... uncontrolled moments. My real plan is actually nothing evil at all, it's simply a device that would create unlimited clean energy. Were you to help me, I'd just need your assistance in getting some parts, materials, that sort of thing."

He seems like he's being genuine.

There's no hint of a lie in those eyes, and while you know this man is dangerous, he's no less dangerous than everything else is at this size. Even if you didn't wind up helping him down the line - his thought on you escaping when you can control your powers was a good idea, actually - it'd be smart to play along.

His hand next to you rises up, carefully and slowly. His fingers approach you, and you try not to flinch back. It's almost like watching a bus directly come at you, the size and speed overwhelming, but you can tell his every motion is meticulous. Extending his pointer finger, he gently presses it to your back. Moving it down in almost a petting motion, a small smile flits over his lips.

"However, that's not a topic of conversation until we get a better grasp on your abilities," he says, "When you're useful enough to be an asset, we'll talk then. But for now-"

"Bird cage?" you interrupt, unable to keep back a small sigh.

Otto smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling up. The rest of his fingers dart forward, carefully flexing around your frame and scooping you up once more. You tumble back into the digits, quickly held in place by his thumb as he brings you back up to eye level.

"Oh, I thought we were beyond that?" he says, "Friends, and all that."

Otto stands to his feet, further making your head spin as you're shot up relative stories by the movement. Your hands come up to brace on his thumb, well aware the loose grip he holds you in is the only thing saving you from a long fall to the ground below. Otto raises his free hand, tugging back his leather jacket. The hand holding you drifts towards the inner pocket, and your eyes widen at the sight.

"Hey!" you yell out, because you don't necessarily want to be in a bird cage, but you definitely don't want to be in his pocket right now either. Otto doesn't respond, instead he tugs the pocket open, and drops you inside.

You tumble down roughly into the cloth, and it takes a second to scramble upright. Looking up you can see a sliver of light from the opening of the pocket, swiftly extinguished when he drops his coat back against his chest. It's warm, especially pressed right up against him, held in place by the thick leather of the coat.

"There’s a few things I need to attend to tonight,” he says, and you can feel every word shake through your bones, “Thanks for the company, my dear.”

Letting out a sigh, you relax back into the pocket, letting the warmth of him wash over you. Everything shifted slightly as he started walking, and you shut your eyes. Accompanied by the booming sound of his heartbeat and your exhaustion, it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep.

[moonbeam-mothling]

Im late as usual but happy hug a tiny day!!

[moonbeam-mothling]

When the person who inspired you likes what you made for them:

[moonbeam-mothling]

it's not that difficult | doc ock x shrunken!reader part two

[link to part one]

[ao3 link]

Summary: It's been a week since you shrunk down in front of Otto. One week in a bird cage, of being a lab rat, and you decide it's time to escape. Of course it won't be that easy.

a/n: this was written at the request of @miniemew! it's a continuation of my previous Otto x tiny fic, and it was a blast to write. reader is gender neutral, and this goes heavy on the fearplay. that said, I hope y'all enjoy!

The past week has been a strange mix of awful and mundane.

And the open bird cage before you seems almost more like a test than a blessing.

Tests. That's what the past week has been. Otto had swept you away, into some dingy apartment that looked far too normal to belong to a supervillain. Still stuck at the unimpressive height of two inches tall, there was nothing you could do when he dropped you in a bird cage before vanishing. Despite his intense curiosity, the man had other things on his plate, evidently. He was gone for most of the nights and mornings, but in the evenings, he always had a few minutes to spare for you.

For studying you, more accurately.

Checking your vitals, measuring your height, maybe an endurance test on a hamster wheel - which was now more annoying rather than outright embarrassing. On one occasion he had drawn some blood with a needle that seemed too tiny to exist. Whatever data he had gleaned from you was carefully recorded in a notebook, before he returned you to the bird cage.

(To be fair, it actually is a pretty nice bird cage.)

It's silver, the sturdy bars just thick enough that you can't bend them out of the way, and spaced too close together to even think about slipping through. The metal bottom is covered with some fabric, an old shirt if you had to guess, which actually was quite comfortable to sleep on. The entire set up is suspended over his desk, with a relatively large door that latches tightly from the outside.

Except, this time, he hadn't quite latched it all the way.

Otto's gone right now, and it's night. If his pattern over the past week continues, he'll be gone for a few more hours at least. It takes a world of courage to even cross the bird cage over to the door, anxiety blooming in your chest. The latch was usually unreachable, but with it barely in its slot, it could spring free if you jiggle it just right. The fall to the desk would be survivable - Otto had sussed out that your shrinking had left you with some enhanced durability. From there you'd just have to find somewhere to hide, until your body finally decided to return to its normal height.

(It's as good a plan as any.)

(And frankly, it was the only plan you had. So, may as well.)

Taking in a shaky breath, you carefully take hold of the door, giving it a slow, tedious push up and out. The latch slips loose of its hold, and the door to the cage swings open with an audible creak. You cringe at the sound, eyes immediately flying up to scan over the messy office, as if Otto would conjure out of the shadows at the faintest noise. You stay perched at the door for a moment, listening carefully. There's absolutely no response - no movement, no distant sounds from further in the apartment.

After gauging the safety for a second, you decide to proceed. You jump down onto the desk, not giving yourself time to overthink it. The desk is chaos, loose wires and stray bolts scattered about, almost every surface covered with some form of scribbled down notes or blueprints. Organization is evidently not Otto's strong suit, and it takes a minute to navigate around pencils and bolts to the back of the desk. There's a small gap where it meets the wall, the cord from the desk lamp falling down to the ground behind it.

You don't really have time to weigh the small range of options you have right now, so you decide the cord is as good a move to get to the floor as any. It's just big enough to hold onto like a rope, and you carefully work on climbing down from the desk, ignoring the massive drop beneath you. With enhanced durability you wouldn't die from it, but it still wouldn't be pleasant. You'd scaled even higher climbs in your home before, but under less dire circumstances. The fear that Otto might return soundly trumps any anxiety over climbing down the cord.

You make it to the dusty floor soon enough, pausing for just a moment to catch your breath. Your heart is positively drumming in your chest, the sharp buzz of adrenaline running under your skin. You only rest for a second, though, before continuing onward, not wanting to linger any more than necessary.

The apartment was more of a workspace than an actual home, something you notice while navigating over and around the multitude of mechanical parts on the floor. It takes a minute to get your bearings, trying to find the door beyond all the scattered clutter, but you eventually find it. Out the office, down the hall, out the front door, and you'd be home free.

Escape is the only thing you have on your mind, as you swiftly creep through the messy workspace. It doesn't take too long to reach the door, the gap underneath is just big enough to squeeze through, out into the hall. The carpet fibers come up to your knees, making walking just a touch more challenging, but that's one of the last things on your mind right now. Turning right, you see the looming front door in the distance, like a beacon of hope. You immediately begin jogging towards it, a small buzzing bit of excitement starting to grow in your chest. Relief washes over you as escape gets closer and closer.

A heavy crash breaks the stillness in the air, and you immediately run into something sharp and hot. You stumble back like a bug bouncing off a windshield, falling to the ground. In front of you is an actuator, the massive claw clenching down into the carpeted ground, just a few sparse inches away from you. The actuator flexes slightly, metal whirring softly as you hear a soft chuckle behind and far above you. Paralyzed in place, the warmth of excitement immediately shifting into chilling dread, it takes everything you have to look over your shoulder.

Otto stands behind you, with a soft smile on his lips that only he could make look sinister. He lifts a hand, waving his fingers at you lightly like you were just an acquaintance at a grocery store, and not a captive in the middle of an escape attempt. You have to tilt your head all the way back to even get a glimpse of his dark eyes, the sharp curiosity in them sending another pang of fear down your spine.

The actuator rises up, causing you to whip your head back towards it, half prepared for the thing to snatch you up in its claw. It doesn't, though, instead it pulls back further and retreats behind Otto.

He looks down at you expectantly.

"Try again."

You stare at him for a moment and only just a moment, before scrambling to your feet and sprinting like your life depends on it. The drag of the carpet fibers slows you down a little, and you fully ignore it, intent on putting as much distance between you and the looming villain as you possibly can.

(But... that's what he wants, isn't it?)

(A chase.)

Heart pounding furiously in your chest, you zoom down the hallway, lungs nearly bursting from exertion. Over the rush of the wind in your ears you can't hear a single sound behind you, and you don't dare turn back to look. You make it to the very end of the hall before you hear the first footstep crash down behind you.

The living room is far less cluttered than the office, leaving nothing to hide behind, no last resort. The carpet transitioned into hardwood, making running just a touch easier. You stay focused on the sliver of light from under the front door, and not the sound of Otto casually following you, covering more distance in one footstep than you did in ten seconds.

Risking a glance over your shoulder, you find Otto practically on top of you. He'd closed the gap in no time, with that same awful smirk on his lips. The actuators are poised behind them, all their glowing eyes are trained on you. Otto's hands are carefully folded in front of him - making no move to grab you even as your speed slows down in the slightest.

(He's toying with you.)

(And the outcome of this was likely predetermined long ago.)

Without warning, a heavy boot slams down in front of you. You stumble, the small quake of his foot hitting the wooden floor being enough to knock you off your feet. The boot's angled carefully, just far enough to miss you. It's practically bus sized, utterly dwarfing your minuscule frame.

You stay still for only a moment, frozen with the icy fear that floods your veins. A distant chuckle rumbles overhead like thunder.

"Last chance," Otto says, from far, far above.

Despite the overwhelming futility, you scramble to your feet, quickly looping around the shoe in your path. It doesn't move, thank god, and you continue sprinting to the front door. Every bone in your body is screaming out for rest, but you don't dare stop.

The gap underneath the door gets closer and closer, as close as the booming footsteps behind you do. A foot away, ten inches, five, almost there .

And then Otto slams an actuator down, the tremor of his metal claw on the ground knocking you straight off of your feet once more. You hit the floorboards hard, heart pounding sent into overdrive as you catch sight of the looming claw in front of you.

Scrambling upright again, you shuffle backwards from it. The claw darts up, pointed prongs of metal now directly facing you. There'd be no way to run past it without running into it, so you dart to the right, further into the living room. There's practically no energy left in your body at all, lungs and limbs burning from exertion, and you don't dare stop. The overwhelming sound of creaking metal follows you, and there's a harsh yank on the back of your shirt as you're swept off the ground by the actuator.

You struggle, although the grip it has on the back of your shirt makes it far too tight to slip out of. Fingers scrambling up, you hook them between the collar of the shirt and your neck, trying to ease up some of the pressure.

Something eclipses the light overhead, and you barely have time to process the giant hand in your vision before it swallows you up. Otto snatches you in a tight fist, arms pinned immobile to your sides. He raises you up to his eye level, at a speed that makes the whole world swirl around you, vertigo in overdrive. His sharp brown eyes light up once you're in sight, a crinkle around the corners giving away his excitement.

Despite the overwhelming helplessness, you struggle, attempting in vain to loosen the hold of his fingers wrapped around you. His hand didn't budge a centimeter, if anything his grip tightened in the slightest amount, just enough to knock a little air out of your lungs. Otto doesn't say a word, he merely turns to the sofa in the living room, quickly crossing over to take a seat. A notebook is perched on the coffee table, and he flips to a half-filled page with his free hand, quickly writing something down.

"Was... was this a test?" You sputter out, half convinced the man would ignore you entirely. Your voice is strained, still unable to get a proper lungful of air with his fingers around you, but his brown eyes do flit to you for a moment.

Otto lowers his fist to the table, loosening it and roughly dropping you onto the coffee table. You land on top of a stack of sticky notes, and you don't dare move. Even if you wanted to attempt to run again, you're far too exhausted to even try. You let yourself collapse, still trying to catch your breath.

"Of course," Otto answers, not looking up from the page he was still scrawling on.

He eventually glances at you, leaning in slightly closer. Otto fills your entire vision, his looming for making you feel like you were in the front row of a movie theater. A little bit of brown hair fell into those dark eyes, which flicked down as he carefully took your form in.

"I wanted to see how fast you could run," he says, smiling once more. His voice is polite and even, as if he didn't just admit to terrifying you on purpose. He turns back down to his notes, still jotting a few things down. "Obviously, your functions are affected when I monitor you closely for tests. I wanted something a little less structured than a hamster wheel."

He finishes writing, carefully setting down his pen on the table. His eyes snap back to you, looking at your face carefully. You're still breathless and sore, trying to gather yourself mentally and physically from the escape attempt, and you feel absolutely pinned under his gaze.

"You couldn't really have thought you were going to escape?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

"I... I kinda did, yeah," you reply. You'd never snapped at him, never raised your voice, but the adrenaline still buzzing in your system and the absolute fury and exhaustion you feel can't help but spill out a little into your tone. "Even if I got caught, I had to try."

Otto nods, surprisingly accepting your answer with ease. He leans back on the sofa slightly, actuators draping over the back of it. His eyes are unwavering, still pointedly trained on you.

"Admirable, if not reckless," he says, "I must say though, you're far safer with me than you would be out there. I can't imagine what Oscorp would do if they got their grubby hands on you."

Pushing yourself up from the sticky notes, you rise to your feet, crossing your arms over your chest. Despite how correct he probably was, that wasn’t his call to make.

"Can't be worse than a goddamn hamster wheel," you mutter. Despite keeping your voice low, Otto does catch it, and he laughs brightly. He almost seems harmless for a second.

"I can assure you, my dear, they would not be as kind as me. I'm curious, but I do not intend to do you any harm. Other scientists, well, their methods of discovery aren't always so kind towards their specimens."

You narrow your eyes at the man, trying to gauge if you should believe him. There was no doubt that Oscorp would have been a nightmare if they had found you, and in all honesty, living at the apartment wasn't going to work out long term. You didn't need confirmation that the world outside was dangerous, but you still wonder how honest he was really being.

"You won't hurt me, but you'll keep me in a bird cage for a week?"

Otto shrugs, unbothered by the accusation.

"Can’t risk you running off and hurting yourself," he says.

He leans in once more, slowly bringing a hand down in front of you. The same one that snatched you up earlier. You look at it warily, waiting for it to grab you in a fist, pinch the back of your shirt and dangle you, but he doesn't. He simply lays it level with the sticky notes, right in front of you. You can feel the heat off of his skin, see the shift of his muscles as he waits.

"May I?"

(He'd never asked if he could hold you before.)

(You can see his fingers twitch in impatience, and decide not to push his kindness too far.)

You gingerly step onto the man's calloused palm, feeling his muscles and tendons twitch underneath you. It's a little hard to keep your balance, but he brings his thumb up, something for you to brace your hands on as he raises his palm to his face. It's far closer than when he was looming over the table, all the minuscule details on his face magnified.

"As far as I'm aware of, you're the only one like you in existence," he says. He lowered his voice for you, the usually brash and proud tone now just a quiet whisper. It was still overwhelming regardless. "I wouldn't allow harm to come your way, that would entirely deprive me of figuring you out. I am still just a physicist at heart, dear, you cannot expect me to not be fascinated by a person who can change their bodily mass on a whim."

You can feel the heat coming off his hand, the shift of his thumb under your palms. From this close, every time he exhales it ruffles your hair in the slightest. His eyes are a mix of a dozen brown shades, still locked firmly on you, and you shift your weight from foot to foot.

"It's not on a whim," you correct.

(If it was on a whim, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now.)

"But it could be," Otto says, "Someday."

With that, he rises to his feet. The thumb you're holding onto gently pushing you back, knocking you off your feet and pressing you into his other fingers, coming to rest around your waist like a makeshift seat belt. A small noise of protest escapes your lips, ignored as Otto takes up his notes and walks back to the office.

(It takes him just a few seconds.)

(All the agonizing minutes you had spent running, trying to cross that distance, and he closes it in just a few seconds.)

Otto enters the office, quickly reaching the desk and taking a seat. You half expect him to immediately return you to the bird cage. He doesn't, though, fingers shifting you slightly in his palm, so he can rest his elbow on the desk, leaving you sitting in his hand at eye level. His thumb stays locked over you, like a heavy weighted blanket in your lap.

(You don't think you could get it to budge, even if you tried.)

"You honestly know less about your shrinking than I do, and I've barely begun to scratch the surface," Otto says. He speaks with a certainty that's just a little grating. "Your powers are incredibly unstable now, but there's no indication that it will always be that way. And even so, I still want to know how it works, what makes you tick."

He looks down at you, with that familiar glint in his eyes. It's positively piercing.

"And I can promise I'll be less invasive than any other scientist you meet who wants the same thing."

Looking up at the man, you can't help but believe him. Your work at Oscorp had been brief enough to not see anything too awful, but you knew that the company had a dark underbelly. Otto, at the very least, wouldn't be killing you anytime soon. You can see on his face he's expecting a response, and you shrug.

"It's not like I have a choice, is it?"

Otto chuckled humorlessly, the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Clever little thing, aren't you?"

With that, his other hand sweeps in, two large fingers gently pinching around your chest and back. It knocks the wind out of you slightly, but his grip is careful, holding you just tight enough that you wouldn't slip from his grasp. He lifts you from his other palm, gently setting you on the desk. His warm fingers stay in place until you're balanced on your feet, and then he pulls away gently.

That clinical curiosity never once leaves his eyes. He glances behind you, searching for something amid the mess of his desk. When he reaches out for it, his arm arches over you, eclipsing the light overhead. His bicep practically becomes your entire sky, and in a second it's gone, once he grabbed the ruler behind you.

"Stand straight, my dear," he says.

You know the drill well enough, you stand up just a bit straighter as you feel the ruler fall into place behind your back. It presses flush against you, the cold plastic sending a chill down your spine. Otto leans in closer, dark eyes narrowed in scrutiny at the tiny numbers marking your height. His eyebrows raise, evidently a little surprised before he leans back in his chair, the ruler clattering down onto the table.

"You gained half an inch," he says, and you can't tell how he feels about that. There's a clinical edge to his tone, covering any real emotion.

You can't quite even tell how you feel about that. Half an inch was fairly inconsequential to regular sized folk, but it was everything to you. Things had seemed a touch smaller than before, but you didn't think you had grown that much. This was the longest you'd been tiny, and knowing you were growing back - if incredibly slowly - was something of a relief.

"Huh," you can't help but say out loud, showcasing a little of your surprise. Otto quirks up an eyebrow.

"You didn't notice?" he asks, with a small tilt of his head.

You shrug, slouching a little now that you don't have to hold yourself up.

"Everything is big at this scale, there wasn't much of a visual change," you say, "It's all still overwhelming."

Otto nods, and you can see the gears in his head turning once more. It's always obvious when he's thinking hard about something - leaning in, eyes narrowed, something intense in his face. It makes you feel like a bug under a microscope, fully on display, analyzed at every angle.

"Interesting," he comments. "I imagine at a certain point it's hard to gauge anything's size accurately, like estimating building dimensions just by viewing them. I don't blame you for not noticing."

(It's kind of a little surprising how well he gets it.)

"And you also said you grow back instantaneously, correct? This isn't typical, is it?"

You take a second before nodding, thinking back of all the times you had shrunk alone in your apartment. Most of the time you'd fall asleep tiny, and wake up normal sized - it was rare you were actually awake for growing back. The few times you had, you had only short bursts, and those were generally exhausting enough to knock you out regardless.

"I'm usually asleep for it," you say, "I just wake up at my usual height. I'm always pretty sore after."

Otto chuckles.

"I'm not surprised. I can't imagine your physical form changing that much, that rapidly, would be a comfortable feeling. If you do wind up having discomfort with growing back, I can give you something for the pain."

You don't reply instantly. You merely look up at the man, trying to read into his expression, figure out what's beyond the clinical curiosity on his face. He seems passive, detached, and then he expresses concern in the same breath. It's a little confusing, and you're tired of being confused.

"So, what's your deal?"

Otto raises his eyebrows, evidently not expecting the pointed question. He doesn't speak, but merely looks at you expectantly, tilting his head slightly as he waits for you to clarify.

"So you want to figure me out like a science project, I get that," you say, and you try not to think about if it's stupid to speak so candidly to a giant supervillain, "But why be nice to me?"

Otto's expression remains blank, and he leans in closer. Both his hands come up to rest on the desk, one on either side of you, palms pressed down onto the flat surface. His long fingers make you feel fully surrounded on all sides, that feeling only increasing when his face stops just a few relative feet from yours. His brown eyes lock onto you, and when he speaks, the breath from his lips ruffles your hair like the wind.

"You think I'm being nice to you?"

You swallow thickly, nervously looking up at the man. You resist the urge to stagger backwards - any distance you could put between the two of you, he could close in a fraction of the time. This close to his face, you can see every little imperfection in his skin, every single fleck in his eyes. It makes you forget what you're saying, for just a moment.

"I-I mean, you said yourself you're being kinder than other scientists," you say, voice coming out just a bit more timid than you'd have liked it to, "And if you really didn't care, you wouldn't worry about the pain from growing. It... I just..."

You pause, tilting your gaze down to the desk. The fake wooden swirls in the wood seem positively fascinating, much more easier to look at than the giant face in front of you. You can still feel the heat off his hands, the pressure of his gaze still on you.

"I'm sorry," you say after a second, "I'm... this is weird, I've never been kidnapped before, I'm still adjusting."

Otto stares at you for a moment more, before chuckling lightly. You hear the low noise intimately, the exhale gently brushing over your skin. He draws back, his face and one of his hands retreating to give you some breathing room.

"Ultimately when I figure out your powers, you'll have figured them out as well. At that point, you'll either escape and be clever enough to utilize said powers to evade me, and that will be the end of it. Or, you could stay and help me."

Eyebrows furrowing in confusion, you look up at the man. There's nothing but sincerity in his features, something almost as surprising as his words.

"Help you?"

"Someone who can change their size at will could be quite an asset to my work. I'm more than capable of most things, but the actuators don't lend themselves to subtlety well. I think I could get some use out of someone who can be a touch more discreet when the situation calls for it."

He wanted you.... to become a supervillain?

That's honestly not what you expected.

"So... you're being nice to me so I'll help you break the law?"

Otto shrugged.

"To put it simply, I suppose."

In all honesty, it isn't that bad of an idea. You'd heard the stories of Doc Ock, you knew he was terrifying, but he wasn't the worst as far as supervillains went.

"I'm... I'm not a killer, or anything."

Otto leaned back in his chair, and he carefully drummed his fingers on the desk. Each tap sent a small shake through the wood, reverberating through your tiny frame. With the hand so close it was almost overwhelming, seeing fingers twice as tall as you are moving so swiftly, and it's all you can do to try to not look unnerved by it.

"I'm hardly one myself, dear. The actuators do the dirty work, it's not something I'd expect of you." He pauses his tapping, thinking for a moment before continuing. "The media likes to highlight my more... uncontrolled moments. My real plan is actually nothing evil at all, it's simply a device that would create unlimited clean energy. Were you to help me, I'd just need your assistance in getting some parts, materials, that sort of thing."

He seems like he's being genuine.

There's no hint of a lie in those eyes, and while you know this man is dangerous, he's no less dangerous than everything else is at this size. Even if you didn't wind up helping him down the line - his thought on you escaping when you can control your powers was a good idea, actually - it'd be smart to play along.

His hand next to you rises up, carefully and slowly. His fingers approach you, and you try not to flinch back. It's almost like watching a bus directly come at you, the size and speed overwhelming, but you can tell his every motion is meticulous. Extending his pointer finger, he gently presses it to your back. Moving it down in almost a petting motion, a small smile flits over his lips.

"However, that's not a topic of conversation until we get a better grasp on your abilities," he says, "When you're useful enough to be an asset, we'll talk then. But for now-"

"Bird cage?" you interrupt, unable to keep back a small sigh.

Otto smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling up. The rest of his fingers dart forward, carefully flexing around your frame and scooping you up once more. You tumble back into the digits, quickly held in place by his thumb as he brings you back up to eye level.

"Oh, I thought we were beyond that?" he says, "Friends, and all that."

Otto stands to his feet, further making your head spin as you're shot up relative stories by the movement. Your hands come up to brace on his thumb, well aware the loose grip he holds you in is the only thing saving you from a long fall to the ground below. Otto raises his free hand, tugging back his leather jacket. The hand holding you drifts towards the inner pocket, and your eyes widen at the sight.

"Hey!" you yell out, because you don't necessarily want to be in a bird cage, but you definitely don't want to be in his pocket right now either. Otto doesn't respond, instead he tugs the pocket open, and drops you inside.

You tumble down roughly into the cloth, and it takes a second to scramble upright. Looking up you can see a sliver of light from the opening of the pocket, swiftly extinguished when he drops his coat back against his chest. It's warm, especially pressed right up against him, held in place by the thick leather of the coat.

"There’s a few things I need to attend to tonight,” he says, and you can feel every word shake through your bones, “Thanks for the company, my dear.”

Letting out a sigh, you relax back into the pocket, letting the warmth of him wash over you. Everything shifted slightly as he started walking, and you shut your eyes. Accompanied by the booming sound of his heartbeat and your exhaustion, it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep.

[moonbeam-mothling]

it's not that complicated | doc ock x shrinking!reader

Summary: After an incident at Oscorp, you're left with a condition where you shrink at random. You deal with this by locking yourself in your apartment while trying to figure out what to do. You didn't think anyone would hunt you down. Especially not Doc Ock.

[ao3 link]

[part two]

a/n: so this is veeeery PG-13, nothing explicit but the tension is HEAVY. reader is shrinking and this does contain G/t, and it goes heavy on the fearplay, fair warning! this also has a gender neutral reader and a very villainy Doc. all that being said, enjoy!

The rain patters on the window of your apartment, and you watch it fall straight down into the dingy alleyway below. It’s a far cry from the beauties of New York, but it’s all you have right now. Were this a month ago, you’d be down there, making a mess of the puddles and enjoying the coolness on your skin, but for now you’re barely brave enough to peek out the blinds for a second.

You pull yourself away from the bedroom window, rolling your shoulders and moving from your bedroom into the living-room-slash-kitchen combo that makes up the rest of your apartment. It's tiny, both rooms cramped, but it's home. You pause at the entry to the kitchen, staring for a second on the marks drawn on the wall.

The highest they go is a little over five and a half feet. Your original height. From that, they’re random. Vastly different increments, from your original height down to a minimum of two inches. The ones at the very bottom are faint.

(It’s hard to hold a pencil when you’re two inches tall.)

But today is a good day, and you are close enough to your original height that you feel comfortable in your own skin. Later you’d record this in your notebook, compare this with previous height shifts. As far as you figure they had something to do with your emotions, possibly your mental or physical wellbeing, but it had only been a month since the incident so there wasn’t enough data to have a concrete answer.

All you know is that shrinking has became commonplace. It varies with how small, and for how long, and you don't know what causes the spurts.

You just shrink sometimes.

You set to work on making breakfast. Bread, canned beans, and some apple juice. Nothing glamorous, but the best you could get delivered to your door, and all things that would keep if you shrunk too small to put the leftovers in the fridge after. Right now, half of what you make is for breakfast, and half will go in the counter underneath the sink, a stash in case your height dropped too far to cook or reach anything else.

Food eventually gathered, you sit down on your sofa, enjoying your meal in silence. The TV wasn’t worth turning on, the noise would eventually become annoying if you were unable to reach the remote to turn it off. So you go over a mental checklist of things to do while you still have the height to do them instead.

You need to make another grocery order, and restock the small stores of water you had in the kitchen cabinet. There’s a pile of doll clothes that need a little bit of tailoring to fit your smallest size, and you wanted to download a few audio books for your Walkman that you keep in a small bookshelf low to the floor, that you use as a bedroom when your bed is too tall to reach.

(On your good days, you prepare for your bad days.)

You had been a secretarial intern at Oscorp, and even that was generous for your job title. At most, you ran around gathering the coffee orders of various asshole scientists, and occasionally helped tidy up paperwork here and there. The chemical spill you were involved in was entirely your fault, despite it just being one test tube splattered on your arm when you were trying to tidy someone's trash left from lunch.

No one saw it, and no one saw when you shrunk.

The world grew around you at a rapid rate, vertigo making the fluorescent lights dance around in your vision. By the time you could even gather what had happened, you were mere inches tall in the lab, surrounded by a towering desk that could put a city block to shame. You had barely managed to sprint underneath it and hole up somewhere safe before you lost consciousness.

You woke up normal sized, cramped and crammed under an average size desk.

You went home. You did not go back to Oscorp. And you have not left your apartment since.

(Dwindling savings and agoraphobia are the least of your concerns. You don't want to turn into Harry Osborn’s personal lab rat, another little scientific curiosity for those scientists to pick apart.)

(You’d figure how to manage this, and then you’d get as far away from New York as you could, and you’d start over.)

(But for now, you stay in your apartment, where you don’t have to worry about being stepped on or stolen or dissected.)

Despite not being hungry, you finish your breakfast. Judging by the darkness from the windows, it isn’t even close to morning, midnight more likely, but it’s a meal and that’s enough, and you’ll call it breakfast if you please. Tossing the paper plate onto the coffee table - easier than attempting to wash dishes and shrinking midway, nearly flooding the apartment, been there - you lean back into your worn sofa. You shut your eyes, allowing yourself a moment of respite.

In the calm stillness of the night, it’s very easy to hear your bedroom window creak open.

You sit up, eyes snapping to your still cracked bedroom door. There’s the slightest possibility that it was just the wind making the old building creak, but all hopes are dashed away the seconds you hear boots on the wooden floorboards.

A small shiver runs down your spine.

You rise from your spot on the sofa, eyes darting to the front door on the other side of the living room to your left. Part of you wants to sprint out, but you lock up in fear. Outside meant rain, animals, pedestrians, shrinking out there would be a death sentence. The footsteps grow closer. A lump forms in your throat. You can hear your bedroom door creak open.

It takes all your resolve to drag your eyes to the looming figure.

Doc Ock fills the frame of the doorway, strolling into the living room like he owns it. His boots are heavy and thick on the floor, and he tilts his glasses down with a gloved hand just a tad, brown eyes sweeping over the tiny apartment. Even if you didn’t know who he was, he cuts a terrifying figure.

His eyes land on you, and his lips curl up into a smirk. He lets out a soft chuckle, stepping closer to you. You edge back, moving yourself in the direction of the kitchen, not once taking your eyes off the super villain invading your apartment.

“You know, when I heard there was an incident at Oscorp, I almost didn’t look into it,” he says. He speaks conversationally, as if you’re an old friend meeting him for coffee, not the owner of the apartment he just invaded. “They’re so uptight, trying to steal any data from them is near impossible.”

You don’t stop moving until your back hits the far wall of the kitchen, the wrinkled wallpaper rough against your thin tank top.

“I-I,” you stutter out, unsure of what you’re even trying to say. Your throat feels like it’s being constricted, brain refusing to work in tandem to make some demand that will make this man leave .

He steps closer, entering the kitchen. There’s a solid few feet of space between the two of you, but you still have to tilt your head back slightly to look him in the eyes, even at your full height.

“But when I found out it was just a helpless intern? Who didn’t even tell anyone?”

He smiles, taking full delight in your shaking form. He lifts a hand to pull off his sunglasses, folding them and tucking them into the inside of his leather coat, and steps closer.

Otto invades your personal space, stopping just a few inches away from you. His eyes look your form up and down, narrowed in scrutiny, reading you like a physics textbook. He’s roughly half a foot taller than you, putting you about eye level with his jaw, and you throw your gaze down at your feet rather than his intense stare.

“Tell me what happened.”

His voice is solid and low, the sharp command a contrast from the smile that was on his lips just a second ago. His face shifts into something stern, leaving absolutely no room for argument.

“It was j-just a vial,” you stutter out, “I, uh, it spilled on my arm, and I washed it off. Nothing happened.”

The words slip from your lips before you can fully think of the ramifications of lying to a supervillain.

The alternative, though, being shrunken in the hands of Otto Octavius, feels infinitely more terrifying.

Otto steps away, turning to look around your cramped kitchen. He takes in the small space.

“It would be a lot easier if you would just be honest with me, my dear,” he says. He lets out a small sigh, an indication that whatever happened next would be your fault if you didn’t comply.

There’s a shifting underneath his leather coat, and a second later the actuators unfurl themselves from the slit cut in the back. The metal tentacles wind and twist, filling whatever sparse space in the kitchen that isn’t otherwise occupied by Otto. He doesn’t even face you, still investigating the kitchen, but one of the tentacles does wind its way towards you. The pointed tip presses to your chest, skating upwards over your throat to place itself at your chin, tilting your head up slightly.

Otto pauses before the set of markings on the wall. He studies them, his face made of stone, and you can’t help the way your breath hitches in your throat, catching on the metal pressed into it.

The actuator retreats at that, and a small, sly look crosses his lips. His eyes dart to you, and he looks positively delighted .

“Oh, now that’s intriguing,” he says. With that he turns, stepping towards you, rapidly closing the distance.

You shut your eyes, pressing yourself into the kitchen wall as if it would absorb you right there. You can feel his presence draw closer, until the warmth of his body is directly in front of you, the smell of metal and cigars hitting your nose.

Gloved fingertips grip your chin, and your eyes fly open at the sudden contact.

Directly in front of you is Otto’s broad chest. Just a second ago you were eye level with his chin, and now he has to tilt your head fully back in his grasp for you to make contact with his eyes. The fingertips around your chin are large and firm, and he lifts up his other hand to pin it on the wall beside your head.

If you had to guess, you were a touch over five feet tall, if even that. Otto was a big man before, but the loss of even just a few inches make his presence all the more consuming.

He leans in, peering into your eyes, before lifting up his hand from your chin to tug off his glove with his teeth. He drops it in his pocket, and returns two fingers to your neck to take your pulse.

“This is fascinating ,” he says, the whisper sounding fully like he’s speaking to himself and not to you. You feel like a bug under a microscope, and the fingers on your neck jerk into your jawline as a few more inches dissipate from your height.

Otto’s eyes widen, the smile finding its way on his lips once more. His other hand braces up on the wall as well, eyes darting to compare where your height was a moment ago to now.

(Ever a scientist at heart, and now with a brand new specimen to study.)

“When did this start?” he asks.

Your lips part, and you can’t bring yourself to speak. The doctor doesn’t take kindly to your silence, and removes his hands from the wall, standing to his full height. You’re easily under five feet now, and your heart stutters when you realize how massive this man is compared to you.

“As s-soon as it spilled on me,” you choke out, deciding to keep on his good side. “It comes and goes.”

His face doesn’t waver from it’s now critical look, still analyzing every inch of your form.

“Are there triggers? What instigates it?”

“I tried to keep notes,” you eke out, with a small gesture towards the coffee table in the living room. He stares down at you for a moment, eyes still narrowed in scrutiny.

Unable to tear your eyes off of him, you watch as he moves out of your space once more. He turns, stepping into the living room, and begins rooting through the belongings on your coffee table. Eventually he finds the faded green notebook amid the mess of paper plates and to-go cups, and begins to flip through it.

He scans the pages with rapid precision, flipping through them as he takes in the notes on what you ate, how you felt, other health symptoms.

“A brilliant try,” he says. He turns to you, and he tucks the notebook into his leather jacket. “Inconclusive, nowhere near the work I’d expect of an Oscorp employee, but there might be something of use.”

Your eyes dart to the front door, behind Otto from your position. Part of you wonders if you could manage to race past him, take your chances outside, but the six limbs are a touch of a deterrent. As if reading your mind, he moves back to you, slowly stepping closer and blocking any path of escape.

“Of course, we’ll have to do some tests,” he says.

He leans down to make his face level with yours, and his smile is nothing but sinister. His hand lifts up, much larger than it was a minute ago. A thick finger traces over your cheek, making you feel all the smaller as you realize his hand is larger than your face.

“But I can’t wait to figure you out.”

His low voice sends a drop of ice down your spine. This time you feel the shrinking more than see it, your skin tightening, your joints groaning uncomfortably. It hurts in large spurts, and you screw your eyes shut as things begin to twist in your vision, your entire world thrown off by vertigo.

When you open them, blinking your eyes to bat away the darkness at the edge of your sight, you’re eye level with Otto’s stomach. The ribbed tank top underneath his coat clings to his wide frame, showing off the curve of his stomach where it hangs over the metal brace cinched tight around him. You can see his breath rise and fall in his chest as you drag your eyes all the way up to meet him. Two and a half feet of difference between you, and he feels like a mountain before you.

(And when sheer delight coats his features, you drop an inch or two more.)

“Are you scared, my dear?” he asks.

He doesn’t bother leaning down this time. His hand comes up to press on your stomach, the span of it large enough to wrap around your waist slightly. Otto pushes you into the wall, and you feel the ground leaving your feet as he slides you up against it.

The feeling of another human’s hand covering the span of your entire front with enough room to spare to grab you is downright terrifying. His fingers are big enough to be tree branches, and even as you squirm, their grip is far too solid for you to pry loose.

Otto pins you against the wall at his face level, and he lifts up his other hand to brace it on the wall next to you, carefully studying his hand in comparison to your head. Just a moment ago it was barely bigger than your face, now it utterly dwarfed your head. The forearm along the side of you obscures that side of your vision entirely.

You bring your hands up to grip the wrist of the hand around your waist, attempting to pry at it. He doesn’t even budge a millimeter, his strength massively outweighing yours. You can feel your fingers dwindling in comparison to his hand, the texture of his leather glove getting rougher as your size decreased compared to it.

“That's it, isn't it? You're frightened.”

He practically growls , his voice low and throaty. It makes you still entirely, turning your face back up to his. Leaning in close, he consumes your entire vision, filling more and more as you feel your size dwindle from your form.

Otto’s hand darts back from your waist, and as soon as a small scream leaves your lips something snatches the back of your shirt. Otto’s hand returns once more, this time clasped over your mouth as you dangle from the claws of one of the actuators.

He tuts at you, squeezing his hand over the lower half of your face lightly. It covers your mouth, your jaw, and there’s plenty extra of the massive palm. The leather is warm and bitter on your lips.

“Be good for me,” he says. His voice is soft, coming out like a gentle request, but the sharp look in his eyes threatens you to dare not disobey. “Be quiet, please, my dear.”

You try to nod, but can’t even budge under the strong grip of the doctor. He feels the miniscule movement, though, and releases your face a moment later.

He steps through the kitchen, the actuator swinging you around by the back of your shirt. None too gently, it pushes you against the markings you have on the wall, dropping you down to your feet. You stumble, barely able to catch your balance, before Otto’s hand returns.

His bare hand is warm, covering your entire shoulder and some of your bicep as he pushes you into the wall.

“Not even three feet tall,” he mutters. His grip on you loosens slightly, pushing you to the side as he leans in to inspect the markings on the wall. His eyes trail downwards, landing at the lowest heights you have marked. His gloved hand comes up to trace the faint pencil mark, standing at a proud two inches.

With him momentarily distracted, you step backwards. You edge back into the living room, trying to ignore the dizzying feel of everything expanding in the slightest increments. The gradual shrinking hadn’t stopped since he arrived, hopefully no more spurts would happen. You’re halfway into the living room, and cast a quick glance to the front door.

One of the actuators slam into the floor in front of the door, sending splinters of wood shattering into the air. You flinch violently, and in the same motion your height crashes down another foot, the metal arched around you rapidly growing as you rapidly shrink.

The doctor rises to his full height, and even with the distance between the two of you, it’s obvious you barely reach his mid-thigh right now. He steps closer towards you, each one of his legs bigger and thicker around than your entire body. It’s like watching a building move, and you can feel the ground lightly tremor from your position much closer to it.

“There’s nowhere for you to go,” he says, his voice filled with a touch of mock sympathy. “I doubt you could even reach the handle to the door.”

The actuator behind your back, blocking the way to the door, darts up, pushing its tip into your back. The sudden shove causes you to stumble, the jolt of fear instigating another shrinking spurt. Your body compresses in on yourself, and it’s all you can do to look up to Otto, watching his figure rise higher and higher above you.

He smiles.

As soon as you can muster the strength to move, you sprint for the direction of your bedroom. The floorboards seemingly grow under your bare feet as you move, the wood grain getting rougher on your skin as you get smaller. By the time you make it to the door you’re a little less than a foot tall, and it takes all of your strength to shove the door closed.

(You don’t hear footsteps. You hear a chuckle, low and satisfied.)

(He isn’t chasing you.)

(Because there’s nowhere for you to run.)

Even with the distance and the door shut, you still dwindle down. You don’t stop moving, knowing you have to get as far as you could before running will get you nowhere. Watching your bed and scattered piles of dirty clothes turning into monoliths would just terrify you further, so you don't linger on anything as you dart for shelter.

When you land at your final height of two inches tall, you barely make it to the nightstand beside your bed. The door to the bedroom slowly creaks open, and you fling yourself underneath the nightstand. A haggard cough escapes your lips as you inhale dust and stale air, and you shove your arm over your mouth to silence it.

It’s quiet.

You can still hear the rain pattering outside, only interrupted by the occasional clap of thunder. The lighting in the room is dark, even darker underneath the cramped nightstand. The swirls in the grain of the fake wood are taller than you are.

At this height, the closest thing of comparison you had was that you were the size of a battery, or two quarters laid lengthwise. You’d measured yourself against things multiple times in the long days spent alone and tiny. You knew how being small felt.

(But being small and hunted down?)

You hear his boots creak softly on the floorboards, as if he’s trying to move as silently as possible through the dark room. You push yourself a touch more into the shadows, hoping he didn’t have time to catch sight of you before he entered.

(It’s goddamn terrifying. )

You try to listen to his footsteps over the sound of your own heart in your ears, trying to keep track of where he’s in your room.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. His voice rumbles like thunder. It couldn’t be more than a low tone, but at your size, his voice sounds like a movie theater speaker system directly in your ears. “It would be best for you to come out now.”

Even if you wanted to heed his words, you’re firmly rooted to the spot. If you could shrink anymore, you’d be downright microscopic right now with the fear flooding your veins. His footsteps draw closer, and you lift up a hand to your lips to stifle the gasp when his boots stop before the nightstand.

You don't even come up to the top of the toes of his boots. The floorboards creak underneath him, the sound deafening at your close proximity. Fingers dig into the flesh of your cheek as you try to keep yourself from uttering a single noise.

Otto sighs. Disappointed, tired, and his foot taps on the ground slightly in impatience. The miniscule movement sends tremors through your small frame.

A sound like the world tearing apart erupts above you. Metal crashes into wood, and the sight of the building sized dresser being lifted effortlessly by a massive metal tentacle is so incomprehensible you can barely process it. The actuator tosses aside the nightstand like it’s nothing, and you’re left collapsed at the feet of Otto Octavius.

It’s all you can do to bring yourself to look up at him. He towers over you, looking like he could loom over the Empire State Building itself, unfathomably large. When his brown eyes spot you, his familiar smile returns.

You scramble to your feet, but before you can even move, two tree-trunk sized fingers are pressed around you, one to your stomach, one to your back. The ground rapidly falls from your feet as his gloved hand lifts you high in the air. All attempts at struggling are stilled the second you get a glance of the drop below, seemingly hundreds of feet down.

Otto shifts you so you’re sitting in his palm, the length of it easily twice your height. The leather is warm on your skin, and you pull your knees up to your chest, as if making yourself smaller would make you less of a target. His towering fingers arch slightly over you, preventing you from falling off, but it feels more akin to cage bars looming threateningly.

He draws you close to his face until it’s the only thing that fits in your line of sight. From this close up you can see all of the intimate details. The faint hint of stubble on his cheeks, the small smile lines in the corners of his mouth, the sheer curiosity in his eyes as he visually devours you.

He doesn’t take his gaze off of you, analyzing every single centimeter of your body. The heat of his breath washes over you, and you can feel the rapid pulse in his palm betraying his calm demeanor.

Otto lifts his ungloved hand, placing the pad of his index finger under your chin. The tip of his finger could easily cover your entire face, the finger itself twice your height, but he angles your face upward with the most delicate motion.

He takes in your tiny features, leaning in closer to examine you further. The tremble of your chest, the terrified expression on your face, your eyes unable to look anywhere but his.

“Fascinating,” he whispers. The word washes over you, his voice surrounding you like warm thunder.

He stands up straight, giving you a bit of reprieve from the close proximity, but only for a moment. His free hand tugs at the collar of his jacket, and he pulls you close to his expansive chest. Catching your eyes still on him, he gives you the smallest wink and the smuggest smile before you’re sent plummeting through the air once more.

You land in something warm and soft, cloth to one side and leather to the other. It only takes a second for you to figure out he dropped you into his coat pocket, and as he lets it go to fall back against his body, you slam into his chest.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says. He doesn’t have to say the words as more than a whisper for them to reverberate throughout your entire body, every noise in his chest shaking you down to the bone.

The world swings into motion as he starts walking, and it’s all you can do to latch onto the thick fabric. His heartbeat is loud against you, pressed right to his soft chest, and you can feel the warm body heat rolling off of him.

He gives a final pat to the pocket, large fingers pressing into your trembling figure to make sure you’re situated, before he vanishes into the night.

[moonbeam-mothling]

Do you have a part 3 to the g/t doc ock fic?

not currently! but i am open to continuing it if inspiration strikes !!

[moonbeam-mothling]

HAPPY HUG A TINY DAY!!!! :D❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

[moonbeam-mothling]

Do you have a part 3 to the g/t doc ock fic?

not currently! but i am open to continuing it if inspiration strikes !!

[moonbeam-mothling]

Hello! (This message was sent without any evil intent)

[moonbeam-mothling]

Breaths Okay so for perhaps months I have been thinking hard on this idea and I wanted something different and I wanted some kind of comic strip at least coming out of it

This is my jumpstart of this idea, "There might be a giant" au (Thanks for a great name, Azzy :whimpy:), about Rodimus crashlanding on Earth and into a lake that has barely any population except one fisherman (I'm just not gonna jump around who he is, he's Megatron, there you go, I let that out of the bag). And with that both are stuck having to deal with each other, let the chaos ensue

Page 01-03 (Just putting the numbers just incase, I have no confidence in myself anymore when keeping consistency with comics due to my scedule)

I would like to specially thank Azzy @ /spectra-bear who painted my sketch in the first page of Rodimus crashing into the lake, when I saw it I just had to go and paint the rest because I dont want it to look like a scrap board because of my laziness, and brainstorming a lot and helping with coming with decisions in the panels

And Tapa @/ random-cockroach for kicking my ass with an idea and expanding it over time with even more brainstorming and forcing me to peel Rodimus on the last minute because the boy can't look fancy after what happened to him

Ref of Rodimus underneath

[moonbeam-mothling]

AU where Skyfire thaws from a glacier at the South Pole and hangs out at an Antarctic research station

[moonbeam-mothling]

FLUFFY cuddling (/o = o)/ \(^O ^\) -- literally the same title hahah as my first GT post online

So i did it i colored it hahaha idk if i can color the whole gif i made so forgive me ( •̯́ ^ •̯̀)

I couldnt help it with the messy lineart still it just makes sense yk hehe

So yeah thats it hehehe (˶' ꒳ '˶)~~ ♡♡

[moonbeam-mothling]

A commission I did a while ago featuring Freyja, who belongs to @pocket-ozwynn ! (The ref was the giant hero April piece I made I think a couple of months ago)