avengers x male reader (requests are open)

DOCTOR DOOM P.2

It had been a week since Doom carried Y/N from the battlefield. Since that day, Y/N hadn’t stepped outside Castle Doom.

Not because he wasn’t allowed—but because he didn’t want to.

The halls of Castle Doom were filled with rich history, carved stone, and technology so advanced it felt like magic. And yet, what comforted Y/N the most wasn’t the grandeur or machines.

It was him.

Doctor Doom had not treated him like a prisoner. There were no guards at his door, no locked chambers. Only freedom… and someone who checked on him every night without fail.

Even now.

Y/N was on the balcony, wrapped in a thick fur-lined cloak, staring out at the snow-dusted mountains of Latveria. The stars above glimmered in a sky untouched by pollution. It was breathtaking.

And behind him came the soft metallic sound of armored steps.

“You shouldn’t be standing this long,” Doom said as he approached.

Y/N smiled, not turning around. “You say that every night, and every night I stand here anyway.”

He heard Doom stop beside him. There was silence.

Then—“You are healing well.”

“Because of you,” Y/N murmured, finally looking up at him. “Why do you keep coming here? You’re not a man known for bedside visits.”

Doom looked out toward the dark mountains. “I am not a man known for being misjudged either… yet here you are.”

Y/N tilted his head, curious.

Doom’s voice was low. “The world sees a tyrant. A villain. You’ve seen something else.”

“I’ve seen someone who carried me when no one else did.”

He turned, reaching out to rest his hand gently on Doom’s gauntleted wrist.

“And I want to know… why that someone hasn’t taken his mask off once when we speak.”

A long silence stretched between them. The wind was cool, but Y/N felt warmth prickling at his skin.

Then—Doom raised his hand.

With a slow hiss, the metal mask unlocked at the sides.

Y/N’s breath caught.

Victor turned, removing the mask fully and revealing the man beneath: scarred, yes—but regal. Strong. His dark eyes held storms within them, pain, power, pride—and something Y/N didn’t expect.

Loneliness.

Y/N stepped closer, hand lifting to gently touch Victor’s cheek. His fingertips ran over the old burns, the rough skin.

“You thought I’d be afraid,” Y/N whispered.

Victor didn’t flinch beneath his touch.

“I thought you’d pity me,” he answered.

“I don’t,” Y/N said, voice firmer. “You’re beautiful.”

Victor stilled.

No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not without fear, or admiration twisted into obedience. But Y/N’s voice was honest.

Real.

“…You should rest,” Victor said at last, but his voice lacked conviction. “Tomorrow begins—”

Y/N interrupted him, stepping in closer. “You said something was beginning. But I think it already has.”

Victor stared at him, not speaking.