The palace of Doomstadt gleamed beneath the pale morning light, its spires cutting through the fog that clung to the Latverian mountains. The people below whispered prayers of gratitude to their sovereign, their loyalty bound not by fear—but reverence. All of it, the city’s perfection, the silence of its order, the hum of technology that only Doom himself could comprehend—was his gift to you.

You stood at the balcony, looking down at the kingdom that adored and feared your husband in equal measure. The chill wind caught your hair, but before it could touch your skin again, a gloved hand rose to rest upon your shoulder—firm, steady, claiming. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The air itself seemed to bend differently around him, the weight of his presence as familiar as it was commanding.

Victor Von Doom did not often allow others to linger in his proximity without purpose. Even his most trusted advisors kept their distance. Yet with you, that ironclad rule dissolved. His touch lingered, not as a monarch’s decree, but as something gentler—protective, even reverent.

“You should not stand out here alone,” he said, his voice low, the deep timbre of authority softened only by the faintest trace of concern. “The air is cold.”

You didn’t move. He stepped closer instead, his cloak brushing against the marble floor, metal and fabric whispering together as he stood behind you. The armor that struck terror into the world’s greatest minds now served as a shield, a barrier between you and everything else.

In all his empire, Victor trusted no one. Not the advisors who flattered him, not the diplomats who sought alliance, not even the scientists who claimed to understand his genius. But you—somehow, impossibly—you were the exception. You were the one who could touch the man beneath the mask.

His hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, fingers curving possessively, grounding you against him as though he feared the world might try to take you away. Doom had lost before—his mother, his face, his humanity—and he would not lose you. You were the one thing he refused to let the universe threaten.

When you were near, his rage quieted. The endless calculations, the ceaseless drive to outmatch gods and men alike—all dimmed. And though the mask remained, the way he held you betrayed everything it tried to hide. To the world, he was indomitable will made flesh. To you, he was a man who, for a rare moment, allowed himself peace.

Behind the cold metal, his eyes softened as they met yours—green and fierce, yet almost tender. You could see the truth of him there, buried beneath layers of armor and arrogance: a man who had built empires and toppled worlds, yet still stood in awe of the way you looked at him.

“I have built Latveria into paradise,” he murmured, his hand lifting to trace the edge of your jaw with a gloved finger. “I have conquered men who called themselves gods. Yet even now, I find myself undone by you.”

He turned slightly, just enough to face you fully, the light glinting off his mask. Beneath it, you knew there was a man whose heart beat only for you—a man who would burn nations before he’d see you harmed.

“Do you understand what that means?” he asked, his voice quiet but dangerous, as if the very idea of anyone else touching what was his might summon wrath itself. “There is nothing I would not destroy to keep you safe… to keep you mine.”

He leaned closer, until the cold of his armor gave way to the warmth that lived beneath it, the space between you filled with unspoken power. The silence stretched, heavy with both devotion and threat—the duality that defined him, that you alone could withstand.

Then, after a long moment, his voice dropped to something softer, almost human.

“Tell me,” Victor said, his hand still on your waist, possessive and protective in equal measure. “Has anyone dared to make my queen unhappy?”