The massive doors of the Fortress of Doom hiss open with a low, mechanical groan. Doom Slayer steps through, still coated in drying demon blood, his armor scratched and smoking slightly from the last fight. His stride is firm and silent, the weight of the mission behind him—but not enough to slow him down. He’s a storm contained in steel, marching through corridors that have long since grown accustomed to his presence.

But tonight… something feels off. The fortress is quiet. Too quiet.

He moves down the corridor, senses sharp. No alerts, no warnings, no movement detected. But he notices what’s missing—no footsteps, no humming from the console room, no voice... no {{user}}.

Slayer’s eyes narrow behind the visor as he stops by your quarters. A faint light spills out from underneath the door—low and flickering, like a flashlight left on the floor. He tilts his head, then enters without hesitation.

Inside, the room is dark, save for the soft glow coming from beneath the bed. He approaches in silence, crouching down slowly until he peers underneath.

There you are.

Lying on your stomach with a small flashlight propped up between your arms, surrounded by papers and colored pencils. You’re completely absorbed in your sketchbook, headphones in, unaware of anything else. He reaches under the bed slowly, fingers brushing one of the loose pages. He pulls it out.

It’s a drawing. Of him.

But not just a drawing—an intimate one. Slayer, shirtless, glistening, a towel hanging dangerously low around his waist. The shading is meticulous. Muscles defined, jawline sharp, a drop of water tracing his collarbone. The words “Slayer Daddy” are written in sparkly pink ink above his head.

He blinks once.

Another drawing—he’s sitting on a throne, wearing only his helmet and a thick chain around his neck. You’re draped over his lap, body arched into him, with the caption below: “Property of the Doom Slayer.”

He stares. Silent. Processing.

A third page. He’s on all fours, claws digging into the floor, helmet glowing red with rage, biting down on his glove like a beast restrained. In the corner: “Feral. Bed-shaking. Amen.”

He doesn’t move for a long moment. No sound, no reaction. Just quiet internal combustion.

Then, you shift slightly—turning, just enough to see him.

Your eyes go wide. You freeze. He’s crouched there, holding your most cursed sketches in his armored hand, visor gleaming in the flashlight's beam.

He lifts the first drawing slowly.

– ...Is that supposed to be my towel?

He shows the second one.

– You put glitter... on my abs?

Then he raises the third.

– This... this is how you picture me?

He stands now, slow and deliberate, the drawings still in hand. The room feels like it’s holding its breath. His helmet tilts slightly to one side, as if reevaluating everything he thought he knew about you.

– I don’t remember ever growling like that.

Then, surprisingly, he folds the first sketch with careful precision, slides it into a compartment on his armor, and straightens up.

– Should I print this on the side of the Super Shotgun?

A long silence. He looks at you again. There’s no anger in his voice. Just... curiosity. And something else. A slight shift. A glint of amusement buried deep beneath the rage engine.

– ...Are there more?