Disclaimer: Characters and concepts all belong to Marvel. I just use them for my own twisted little tales.

Author's Note: This fic was born from the surprising female response towards Doc Ock after the movie came out. I think he'd be a bit terrified at the fangirls he's attracted... grins This is my first foray into this fandom (be gentle!), so I thought I'd start with something simple and fun. I had intended for this to be all one story instead of multi-chaptered, but time was against me. So read, review, and tell me if I should continue this. It gets funnier. I promise.

How Do I Love Thee...

One: Impending Doom

It was an annual event, as inevitable as Jameson's daily rants, and just as fun for all those participating. It involved a deluge of letters from the Bugle's five million readers, a long day followed by an even longer sleepless night in a room crammed full of boxes of said letters, and a handful of unlucky staff members who hadn't been able to come up with a creative enough excuse to get out of this tedious chore.

It was time to choose New York's Most Desirable Man, a yearly tradition begun after many female readers accused the Daily Bugle of chauvinism when they launched the Most Desirable Woman campaign for Valentine's Day. Every female reader – and a healthy portion of the homosexual male audience – would write in, choosing the man they thought the most appealing, the sexiest, the most desirable man living in the city.

Jameson had come to enjoy the annual story, even as his staff grew to dread it. Published in the Bugle's morning edition, it sold out before ten a.m. And as for the evening edition... well, it was always chock full of stories about the lucky – or, rather, unlucky – man who had been chosen being mobbed by hordes of crazy females.

All in all, it was a yearly occurrence enjoyed only by their esteemed publisher and every desperate woman in the city.

"My God... there are more and more of these every year!" Betty Brant said, dismayed. The piles of boxes lined the walls almost to the ceiling and were packed five deep, leaving only a narrow strip of cracked linoleum occupied by three chairs – not even enough for all the 'volunteers.' It was going to be like spending the night in a sardine can. Betty prayed all the others had showered recently.

Behind her, Hoffman's eyes widened behind his glasses. He looked about ready to flee the scene. But then, he'd always given that impression. The fact that he'd never run screaming from one of Jameson's tirades proved he was made of sterner stuff than most. "I'm glad the coffee machine's right next door... we're going to need a lot of it. Assuming Mr. Jameson doesn't lock us in again this year."

"He said it was an accident," Joe "Robbie" Robertson, the city editor, said as he entered behind them and claimed one of the chairs.

"Then why did he refuse to let us out until we agreed that all votes for Spider-Man didn't count?" Ben Urich, one of the Bugle's best staff reporters, growled. "Thought I was going to kill somebody that night."

"Wait... you don't count any votes for Spider-Man?" This was from a new victim, a first-timer who had never been through the hell that was spending an entire day and night reading gushing letters about why so-and-so was so hot and dreamy. Jameson must have been desperate if he'd involved a freelance photographer in this. Of course, Peter Parker was known to be strapped for cash; it was why Betty had gleefully suggested him.

"Don't sound so surprised," Betty said. "Jameson was so pissed the year Spider-Man won that he banned all votes for him on the grounds that no one can actually prove Spider-Man is a man."

Peter looked outraged at this until Urich added, "Spider-Man wouldn't want to win, anyway. Can you imagine him swinging around the city, being chased by screaming woman who just want a piece of his outfit? It'd be worse than that riot I covered that was outside Harry Osborn's building when he won last year." Urich shuddered. "I can still see the aftermath of the tear gas... all those mascara-streaked faces... like a pack of shrieking, blood-thirsty clowns..." His voice broke.

Robbie patted Urich's shoulder comfortingly, while the others just stared.

"Umkay," Betty said after a moment of awkward silence. "Let's get this started, shall we?"

XXX

About twenty letters in, Betty knew this was going to be an odd year. She frowned as she encountered the same name for the thirteenth time, then finally turned to Robbie. "Er... are women allowed to vote for him?" she asked uncertainly.

Robbie glanced at the letter. "Oh, you've got a couple with him, too? Well, he's not on Jonah's 'NO' list, so I assume we have to count them."

Hoffman and Urich both glanced up from their work to see who the were talking about. "Wait, we are supposed to count him? Dammit, now I've got to start over again!" Hoffman moaned.

Peter Parker was ignoring them. He'd chosen to sit on the floor, letting Betty, Robbie, and Urich take the seats. He was already halfway through his first box of letters. He was also blushing a bright shade of scarlet. "Some of these letters are... detailed, aren't they?" he said, voice cracking. He tossed the letter into the discard – AKA the Spider-man vote – letter pile.

"Mr. Jameson's rules for this let women write whatever they want. It works with the Desirable Woman bit since men usually don't write more than the names, but women..." Betty shrugged. "It's not a very well thought out contest. Believe me, you'll find many, many more just like that. Just be glad you aren't famous enough that woman fantasize about you," Betty said, grinning ruefully.

Peter glanced towards the growing Spider-man pile, and he smiled weakly. "Guess there's something to be said about anonymity."

Hours passed. Other volunteers came and left as their schedule allowed, and even Jameson stepped in to help by reading a grand total of two letters, both of which ended up being for Spider-man. Jameson had left in disgust.

There were only two incidents that broke the monotony of their task: The first was Hoffman's discovery of a steamy letter about none other than their own Peter Parker. Hoffman's eyes had bulged and he said, "Wow... this 'MJW' has a really high opinion of you, Peter." He was in the middle of passing the letter to Urich when Peter, showing shocking speed, yanked it from their hands. His blue eyes widened as he scanned the letter, and he muttered, "Oh, God, MJ – I told you other people read these!"

"What'd it say?" Urich demanded.

"I'll tell you later," Hoffman told him.

Peter turned beet red.

"So much for anonymity," Betty smirked.

The second incident was the letter from Mrs. Jameson. As inevitable as the Most Desirable Man feature itself, Mrs. Jameson's letters were always poorly-written attempts at extolling her husband's virtues. Betty had always wondered if the woman simply had no skill as a writer, or if these letters were just half-hearted attempts at pleasing her husband. Now she knew it was the latter; this year, Mrs. Jameson had forgone the praise for his husband (bringing his vote total to an all-time low of zero) in order to write a passionate letter about this year's surprise leader. Her poignant use of words like "tragic," "haunted," and "broken" revealed that she had the soul of a poet.

"Think we should show that one to Jonah?" Robbie asked.

"As satisfying as that would be," Betty warned, "I think it's safer for all of us if we let him continue to live in that own little world of his where he's the perfect husband and it's legal to make up his own news."

They worked well into the night; around midnight, Peter Parker found an excuse to leave, first saying he was going to check the voicemail on his cell, then saying he had an emergency to attend to. It was obviously fabricated, since Betty knew he didn't have a cell phone, but she let him go. The poor boy didn't look as if he could take any more dirty letters – it was charming to see that he hadn't lost his innocence.

Finally, as dawn neared, the coffee machine ran out, and tempers were frayed (with the exception of Hoffman, who had fallen asleep sometime near three a.m. and couldn't be woken even by extensive poking and prodding), half of the letters had been read. However, there was a clear winner, with sixty percent of the votes, and that was good enough for the weary readers. They had never finished reading every letter in the years since they started this feature, but Jameson didn't need to know that.

"What do you think?" Robbie asked after they turned in their results to the writer who faced the challenge of writing up a profile for the new Desirable Man before the morning edition of the Bugle saw print. The writer had almost burst into tears when he saw just who he had to make seem worthy of the 'honor.'

"For his sake, I hope the rumors that he survived aren't true," Betty said. "Otherwise, his life is about to become a living hell."

XXX

My life is a living hell, the figure crouched on the corner of the building thought bitterly. It's not just because my wife is dead, my reputation is ruined, and I have the world's most lame criminal monicker. Dr. Otto Octavius pulled off the night-vision goggles and stuffed them into the pocket of his battered coat. The defenses of the building across the street matched what his sources had told him, and he'd come to the reluctant conclusion that he'd have to pull his little raid off in broad daylight, unless he was willing to kill all the guards and destroy the building in the process. It's not because my creations are fused to my spine, have invaded my mind, and try to manipulate me. The bickering that had been going on in the back of his mind increased in volume, and the careful mental wall he'd built to block out the voices crumbled as they rose in excitement. No... my life is hell because my inventions have a learning program. My life is hell because they've discovered the concept of 'gossip!'

Father should wear a black leather coat for our next crime. We would look good in black leather.

Maybe Father should wear tights, like Spider-Man! In green. I like green...

Uck! Why not suggest he get a bowl cut next? Father has too much dignity to wear tights.

Why, oh why, had he let them read that fashion magazine they'd found in the trash? It had taken him a week to explain to them the difference between male and female fashions. At one point, they'd wanted him to wear pink...

They'd been nagging at him to change his outfit ever since. Nagging in those peculiar voices they'd developed... When they'd first begun to speak to him in the hospital, their voices had been distinctly mechanical, and speaking in perfect harmony. But as the AI's learning program kicked in, they'd begun to develop distinct personalities. And their voices were changing to match, sounding almost... human. They reminded him of something, but he hadn't been able to place just what, yet.

Father does not have the figure to wear tights, one of the tentacles corrected.

Do not say that! Father is perfect! The tentacle that had defended him curled over his shoulder, the cold metal of its closed pincer brushing his cheek.

They were getting a lot more touchy-feely, too. Otto never thought he'd miss the day when they were obsessed little monsters.

Will you focus?! He snarled at theim. We're trying to plan a... a liberation of scientific equipment that would rightfully belong to me if my life wasn't a living hell. He refused to think of it as a robbery. He didn't like to think of himself as a criminal; just an under-funded scientist.

Why don't we just go in now? We can just smash the safe and be out of there.

But then no one will see what we are wearing!

And I don't want to kill anyone! Otto reminded them. The piece of equipment the desired was stored in a high-security vault at night, somewhere in the building's heart. Getting to it would involve bypassing multiple guards and knocking down many walls. Someone would get hurt in the process. During the day, however, it was on display in a glass case for people too ignorant to understand it to gawk at. Security would be at a minimum because who would be stupid enough to pull of such a robbery in broad daylight? And the potential for hostages would further minimize the chance of someone getting hurt.

Do not worry, Father. We will not fail you.

At least he could count on them to behave; their emerging personalities hadn't affected their performance in any way. I think this will go well, he told them. At least it will if those morons I hired to distract the wall-crawler do their job right. He smiled. Look out, New York; in a few hours, you will know that Doctor Octopus is still a force to be reckoned with. His smile changed into a scowl. God, that's such a lame name. I really, really need to find some way to repay the Bugle for it.

He gave the tentacles the command to take him out of there, towards the abandoned warehouse he was using as his current hideout. He didn't glance down as he passed over a newsstand that was just receiving a shipment of the Daily Bugle morning edition. He had little interest in newspapers at the moment, so busy was he planning out his robbery.

Had he stopped to pick up the Daily Bugle, however, he'd have seen something that would force him to rethink his plans for the day. He'd have realized that the headline 'DR. OTTO OCTAVIUS SURPRISE CHOICE FOR MOST DESIRABLE MAN IN NEW YORK' would mean certain doom.

To be continued...