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The halls of the Baxter Building thrummed with their usual symphony—Johnny’s bursts of laughter, the deliberate, heavy tread of Ben’s footfalls, the soft murmur of Sue speaking in the next room. But all of it faded into irrelevance the moment Victor von Doom strode into Reed Richards’ lab, his emerald cloak billowing behind him like the herald of an approaching storm.
Reed barely glanced up, fingers moving with meticulous precision over his latest project—a quantum stabilizer, if Victor cared enough to acknowledge it. He didn’t. Not when something far more pressing demanded his attention.
A flicker of irritation—or was it something else?—crossed Reed’s face as he sighed and finally looked up.
"Victor," he said, his tone edged with the kind of exasperation that felt too practiced to be genuine. "I assume you have a reason for barging in unannounced?"
Victor folded his arms, the faintest ghost of a pout at the corners of his mouth. "Unannounced? As if I require permission to oversee your work." His gaze flickered to the stabilizer, unimpressed. "Your… partnerships of late have been questionable."
There it was again. That sharp, possessive undercurrent that surfaced whenever Victor suspected Reed had been working with someone else.
Reed leaned back in his chair, stretching, the movement slow, deliberate. "Oh, for—what now, Victor? If this is about T’Challa—"
"Of course it is about T’Challa," Victor snapped, stepping closer. "You disappear to Wakanda for weeks at a time, whispering in corners, exchanging ideas—"
Reed arched a brow. "That’s generally how scientific collaboration works."
Victor closed the space between them, the cold steel of his armor brushing against the soft fabric of Reed’s shirt—a contrast of hardness and warmth. "You don’t need his collaboration when you have mine."
Reed inhaled sharply. Victor caught the tell—the faint twitch of his fingers at his sides. Reed always pretended Victor’s scrutiny was a burden, that these accusations exhausted him. And yet, Victor was too observant to miss the way Reed’s breath hitched when he leaned in like this. The way his lips parted slightly, as if on the verge of saying something. Waiting—waiting for what? Permission?
"You’re being ridiculous," Reed murmured, but his voice had softened, edged with something almost… inviting.
"Am I?" Victor’s fingers curled into his gauntlets. He would never touch Reed with the cold steel of his armor, but the thought lingered—dangerous, tempting. "Tell me, Reed—what do you discuss with him that you cannot discuss with me?"
Reed smirked—smirked, as if the heat in Victor’s voice amused rather than infuriated him. "Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?"
Victor bristled, possessive fire flaring in his chest. "You enjoy provoking me."
Reed shrugged, lazy and infuriating. "I enjoy watching you make a fool of yourself over nothing."
Nothing. As if Reed’s time, his attention, his mind—as if the very thought of Reed Richards being pulled away from Victor was nothing.
Victor’s jaw tightened, his voice low and lethal. "You will not go to Wakanda again."
Reed exhaled a laugh, but Victor caught the quick pulse at his throat. "Oh? And who’s going to stop me?"
Victor’s eyes burned beneath his mask. "You know the answer to that."
Reed’s gaze flickered—to Victor’s mouthplate, then back up to his eyes. And for a single, agonizing second, silence stretched between them—charged, unbearable.
Then Reed turned away, back to his work, pretending nothing had passed between them. "You’re being ridiculous, Victor," he muttered, voice betraying none of the tension still thick in the air.
Victor lingered a moment longer, fists curling at his sides, before he turned and swept from the room, his cape billowing in his wake.
Neither of them acknowledged the way Reed’s fingers trembled as he reached for his tools. Nor the way both their hearts pounded at the thought of being apart.
Reed assumed Victor had left for the night. He had stormed out in one of his dramatic flourishes—cloak snapping, voice clipped, every step brimming with the kind of restrained fury that sent a delicious thrill down Reed’s spine.
And yet.
The sound of his bedroom door unlocking—not opening, unlocking—made Reed freeze. His pulse kicked up, but he forced himself to remain still, eyes scanning his notes though the words no longer registered.
Victor had a presence—dense, inescapable, pressing against Reed’s awareness before he even heard the slow, deliberate click of the door shutting.
Reed exhaled, adjusting his glasses. "I thought you left."
"I did." The reply was smooth, steady—calm in the way only Victor could make a threat feel inevitable. Footsteps followed, unhurried yet laden with intent. "And then I thought better of it."
Reed closed his notebook with a sigh, finally looking up. Victor stood just inside the room, arms folded. No armor, no mask—just Victor, clad in an immaculate three-piece suit, dark and razor-sharp in its tailoring.
God help me, Reed thought, unwilling to acknowledge how much worse this was.
The lack of metal made Victor feel real in a way that set his nerves alight.
"That’s concerning," Reed muttered.
Victor stepped forward, the dim light catching the silver at his temples. "Is it?" His gaze flicked to Reed’s hands, where his fingers rested against his notes. A tell. Reed’s own.
Victor smirked.
"I find it far more concerning that you’re awake at this hour, brooding over your work." A pause, measured. "But then, that is nothing new, is it?"
Reed smirked back, though his fingers twitched slightly against the desk. "Since when do you care about my sleeping habits?"
Victor didn’t answer immediately. Just watched. The silence stretched until Reed felt the weight of it pressing into his chest.
"I don’t," Victor said at last. "I simply find it… inefficient. You cannot function at your peak if you’re exhausted."
"Of course," Reed murmured, "your concern is purely practical."
Victor’s jaw tensed.
"You’re avoiding the subject."
Reed leaned back, feigning ease. "Oh? And what subject would that be?"
Victor’s fingers twitched at his sides, bare now—no gauntlets to conceal the movement. A tell. One Reed had learned to recognize.
"You know precisely what I mean," Victor murmured, voice lower, edged with something dangerous.
Reed let a slow smile tug at his lips. "Let me guess—you stormed out after accusing me of betrayal because I dared discuss science with someone who isn’t you."
Victor’s eyes darkened.
"Are you going to pretend," Reed continued, "that you didn’t come back here just to argue about it again?"
Victor stepped forward. The air between them grew heavier.
"You speak as though you enjoy instigating me."
Reed’s smile deepened. "Maybe I do."
Victor exhaled sharply through his nose. "You’re insufferable."
Reed didn’t reply. Just watched as Victor’s hands flexed at his sides.
He was waiting for something. Something neither of them wanted to name.
Then, with a sharp turn, Victor strode toward the door, posture rigid, leaving as if his presence here had never happened at all.
Reed let him go, running a hand through his hair, biting back the smirk threatening to form.
God, he’s obvious.
And for some reason, Reed liked it.
Power had a scent.
In Latveria, it was thick velvet and polished gold, the smolder of expensive cigars and aged cognac, the undercurrent of something metallic and sharp—like ozone before a storm. The air itself carried the weight of authority, pressing in on the attendees of Victor von Doom’s meticulously curated gala.
And yet, despite the foreign dignitaries and heads of state, the gathered scientists and political players, Doom’s attention never wavered from Reed Richards.
Reed felt the weight of it. He had attended out of pure curiosity—at least, that’s what he told himself.
A smoldering gaze tracking him across the grand ballroom, drinking in his movements, dissecting his interactions. Victor had spent the night in his usual station—a throne of power carved into the evening itself, his presence felt more than seen. He did not need to command the room. The room yielded to him.
But not Reed.
Oh, Reed had been pushing it tonight.
How far could he push Victor before he snapped?
A smirk ghosting at his lips, Reed engaged in what was perhaps the most reckless experiment of his career.
A glass of Latverian wine in hand, he had spent the last hour in effortless conversation with Namor—lingering touches on his wrist, laughter a shade too low, words murmured too close to the Atlantean king’s ear.
None of it was necessary.
All of it was deliberate.
Victor’s jealousy burned as hot and bright as a supernova, and Reed wanted to watch it consume him.
"You know," Namor mused, a knowing smirk curling his lips, "if you continue to touch me like this, Doom may incinerate me where I stand."
"What?" Reed feigned innocence, his fingers barely grazing Namor’s forearm as he reached for his drink. "Victor’s not that unreasonable."
Namor chuckled darkly, swirling his own glass. "He is, and we both know it."
Before Reed could retort, a presence loomed behind him.
Not loud. Not rushed. But inarguable.
"Step away from Richards, fish king."
Victor’s voice was smoke and steel, slicing through the air like a blade.
Namor turned slowly, unbothered, but Reed knew better. He felt it too.
The quiet thrum of barely-leashed fury.
"Jealousy is an unbecoming trait, Doom," Namor mused, amusement flickering in his gaze.
"Jealousy?" Victor’s tone was clipped, precise—far more dangerous than a raised voice. "As if you warrant such sentiment. You are a barnacle clinging to the scraps of those far superior to you."
Namor’s eyes narrowed, amusement flickering into something sharper.
"Careful, Doom. You may be Latveria’s ruler, but the ocean does not answer to you."
"Nor does it concern me," Victor shot back. The air around them felt thick, charged with something volatile. His voice, dangerously low, barely above a whisper. "But let me make myself perfectly clear—if I see your hand brush his skin again, I will personally ensure that Atlantis functions without a king."
Namor arched a brow, unbothered, but Reed saw it—the briefest flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.
Victor was terrifying on a normal day, but like this?
Unrestrained. Possessive. A hurricane barely contained in human form.
Even Namor knew when to pick his battles.
"Hmph." Namor stepped back, raising his glass. "You are amusing when you get like this, Doom. Truly."
He turned and vanished into the crowd.
Reed barely had time to savor his victory before iron fingers clamped around his wrist.
"We’re leaving," Victor growled.
Oh.
Oh, this was going to be good.
Victor’s grip was borderline bruising as he led Reed out of the ballroom, steps quick, controlled, seething.
Reed didn’t resist.
His pulse thrummed with something heady, something dark and thrilling.
He lived for this.
The moment the heavy doors of Victor’s private chambers slammed shut, Reed knew he had pushed too far.
And God, he relished it.
Victor didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
He stood still, rigid, hands clenched into fists at his sides, every muscle coiled so tightly it looked like it would snap.
The silence stretched.
Reed exhaled slowly, tilting his head. "Oh, don’t tell me you actually—"
Then Victor was on him.
A force of nature.
A storm breaking, violent, inevitable, the crash of heat and fury and want that had been simmering between them for years.
Victor slammed him against the wall, fingers bracing on either side of his head, caging him in. His breathing was heavy, sharp, ragged.
His body burned with the effort to hold himself back.
"You—" Victor’s voice was low, guttural, reverberating between them. His ungloved hand came up, fingers gripping Reed’s chin, tilting it up, forcing him to meet his gaze.
Reed was grinning.
"You should see yourself," he murmured, eyes dark with amusement, with knowing.
Victor’s grip tightened.
"You deliberately provoked me," Victor snarled, his breath ghosting against Reed’s lips.
Reed’s lips parted slightly, amusement curling at the corners. "You make it too easy, Victor."
Victor’s breathing was heavier now, each inhale sharp, controlled—barely.
His fingers twitched against Reed’s jaw, as if fighting the urge to tighten, to claim.
Reed’s own pulse betrayed him. He was teasing, but he wanted this.
"I should throw you out of this castle," Victor murmured. But his thumb—traitorous, betraying—brushed against Reed’s lower lip.
Reed smirked. "You won’t."
Victor exhaled sharply. "No."
Then, finally, the dam broke.
Victor crashed his lips against Reed’s, consuming, devouring, his hands gripping at Reed’s waist, pulling, dragging their bodies flush. It was brutal, heated, nothing sweet, nothing gentle—just desperation wrapped in power and frustration and years of this.
Reed groaned, the sound swallowed by Victor’s mouth, fingers tangling in his cloak, tugging, pulling him closer.
Victor’s hands, bare, seared into Reed’s skin—possessive, claiming, punishing.
"Still enjoying yourself?" Victor growled against his lips, voice husky, dangerous.
Reed grinned, his own hands wandering, taunting. "You tell me."
Victor growled, capturing his lips again, pressing him harder against the wall.
And Reed?
He enjoyed every second of it.
Reed knew how to handle Victor’s anger.
Or at least, he thought he did.
But this—this was something new. Something dangerous.
Victor’s mouth was on him, hot and bruising, all fire and control barely held together. Hands pressing into his waist, fisting the fabric of his shirt as if Reed might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on.
It was unrestrained.
It was desperate.
And Reed?
Oh, he thrived in it.
"Still enjoying yourself?" Victor growled, his lips barely an inch from Reed’s, his voice rough, ragged.
Reed licked his lower lip, dragging his fingers so slowly down Victor’s chest, enjoying the way Victor’s breath hitched.
"You tell me," Reed murmured.
Victor growled, a low, guttural thing that rumbled through his chest, vibrating against Reed’s body.
His fingers dug into Reed’s hips, sharp enough to bruise.
But Reed wasn’t done yet.
No.
He wasn’t done playing.
"I’m curious, Victor," Reed mused, his voice smooth, teasing, a direct contrast to the sharp rise and fall of Victor’s chest. He let his fingers trace the high collar of Victor’s suit, feather-light. "Do you think about it?"
Victor’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening. "Watch your words, Richards."
Reed’s smirk only deepened.
"No, I don’t think I will."
Victor’s nostrils flared, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
Reed leaned in, breath ghosting against Victor’s ear. "I think you obsess over it."
Victor’s fingers twitched.
"I think," Reed continued, "you hate that you want it. That you need it."
Victor let out a sharp exhale, his hands twitching where they still held Reed against the wall, his restraint shattering at the edges.
"Say it."
Victor’s head snapped up, eyes burning into his.
"You want me to say it?" His voice was dangerously low.
"I do," Reed purred. "Say it, Victor."
Victor’s hands moved before he could stop himself—one hand snapping around Reed’s jaw, tilting his head up, forcing his gaze to stay locked on him.
"You are playing a dangerous game, Richards."
"Oh?" Reed exhaled, tilting his chin up, lips inches from Victor’s. "Then maybe you should stop me."
Victor snarled—a sound that should have been anger, should have been fury, but God, Reed could feel the hunger thrumming beneath it.
Victor’s thumb brushed over Reed’s lower lip.
Soft.
Testing.
"You talk too much."
Reed’s lips curled.
"Make me stop."
And that was it.
Victor broke.
The kiss was feral.
Nothing restrained, nothing refined—just Victor taking, devouring, owning.
His fingers tangled in Reed’s hair, pulling, tilting his head just the way he wanted. His other hand slid to the small of Reed’s back, yanking him forward, pressing them together so there was no space left between them.
And Reed?
Reed moaned, his fingers clawing at Victor’s shoulders, his smirk fading into something raw, something breathless, something that finally admitted—
Oh, he wanted this too.
Victor felt it.
The way Reed melted for him, the way his body shivered from the sheer force of it.
"You drive me insane, Richards," Victor snarled against his mouth.
"I know," Reed gasped, biting Victor’s lower lip, dragging a delicious sound from his throat.
Victor growled, pressing him harder against the wall, his thigh slipping between Reed’s legs, making him gasp.
"Say it," Victor commanded.
Reed panted, his hands sliding up to cup Victor’s jaw, his nails scraping against the rough stubble there. "Say what, Victor?"
Victor’s lips dragged along his jaw, hot breath against his skin. "That you belong to me."
Reed let out a breathless laugh, hands gripping tighter.
"You first."
Victor crashed their mouths together again, swallowing the last of Reed’s smirk.
And then it was no longer a game.
Now, it was war.
Victor hated how much he wanted this.
Reed knew it.
He felt it in the way Victor's body was wound too tight, in the way his fingers twitched against Reed’s waist like he was debating whether to hold him still or push him down. In the way his breathing had grown uneven—Victor von Doom, who commanded armies, who had never been rattled, was standing here, lips parted, pupils blown wide, barely keeping himself in check.
And Reed lived for it.
"Look at you," Reed murmured, dragging his fingers so slowly over the edge of Victor’s collar, teasing at the fabric, never quite touching skin. "You’re shaking, Victor."
Victor’s jaw clenched, his hands twitching where they gripped Reed’s hips.
"You’re testing me," Victor growled, his voice rough, dangerous.
"Always." Reed smirked, shifting just enough to press against Victor, feeling the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers tightened.
Victor exhaled sharply, his hands locking onto Reed’s waist. "Do you want me to snap, Richards? Is that it?"
"I want you to admit it," Reed murmured, his lips grazing just below Victor’s ear, just enough to send a shiver through him.
Victor's fingers dug into him, but Reed kept pushing.
"That you can’t stand it," he whispered, dragging his lips just barely along Victor’s jaw.
Victor stilled.
A single, heavy second of silence.
Then—
"You think you’re in control of this, Reed?"
Reed barely had a moment to process it before Victor moved.
A sharp twist, a blur of motion, and suddenly Reed wasn’t against the wall anymore—he was spun, pressed face-down against Victor’s massive desk, arms pinned behind him in a grip that was too firm, too hot, making his breath catch.
"You have spent the entire evening provoking me," Victor murmured against the back of Reed’s neck, low, rough, sending shockwaves through him. "Touching him. Smirking at me. Pushing."
Reed’s pulse spiked.
"And now?" Victor’s fingers traveled, dragging over the curve of Reed’s spine, making him arch before pinning him down again. "Now you expect me to be gentle?"
Reed shuddered.
"Who said I wanted gentle?" he breathed.
Victor groaned, the sound reverberating through his chest, through Reed, through the air itself.
"Then I hope you’re ready, Richards."
And then—
Victor broke.
There was no restraint. No hesitation.
Just hands gripping, lips claiming, Reed being devoured whole.
Reed was a man of logic. A man of science.
He could map entire universes, break the boundaries of time, stretch reality itself with the sheer force of intellect.
But at this moment?
With his chest pressed against Victor’s desk, his wrists pinned behind his back, Victor’s breath searing against his skin—
None of that mattered.
Because Victor von Doom had finally snapped.
And God, it was glorious.
"You thought this was a game," Victor murmured, voice smooth as dark silk, but edged with something dangerous. His fingers ghosted along Reed’s spine, teasing, not quite touching where Reed wanted, where he needed.
Reed exhaled sharply, his smirk threatening to return—because yes, he had wanted this, needed this, needed Victor to break first.
"Isn’t it?" Reed murmured, tilting his head, voice light, taunting, knowing exactly what it would do to him.
Victor growled—a deep, guttural sound that sent a sharp thrill through Reed’s body.
"You truly do not know when to stop, do you?"
Victor’s grip tightened, fingers wrapping around the nape of Reed’s neck, pressing him down just enough to make him feel it, to remind him exactly who had won this round.
"You push and you push," Victor continued, his lips just behind Reed’s ear now, voice nothing but heat and command.
"Maybe I like seeing what it takes to make you lose control," Reed whispered, his pulse thrumming, body thrumming, loving the way Victor’s hands were shaking against him, from anger, from restraint, from desperation.
"Then let me enlighten you."
Victor moved, sharp and decisive, flipping Reed before he could react, pressing him flat against the desk now, caging him in, his massive frame blocking out everything else.
Reed sucked in a breath.
Because Victor was gone.
The Victor who debated, who played these games of wit and ego.
What replaced him was hunger.
Pure, unfiltered, uncontrollable hunger.
And it was all for him.
"You enjoy riling me up, Reed?" Victor’s voice was low, molten, as his fingers traced along the waistband of Reed’s slacks, teasing at the fabric, just enough to make Reed’s breath stutter. "You enjoy watching me burn?"
Reed swallowed, his body betraying him now, his mind flooded with sensation, clouded with the sheer power Victor exuded, the raw heat between them.
"Maybe," he murmured, but the usual smirk was faltering now, dissolving into something else.
Something wanting.
Victor laughed—low, dangerous, right against Reed’s throat.
"Then, by all means—burn with me."
And then Victor claimed him.
There was nothing left between them.
No rivalry, no words, no space—just heat and desperation and the inevitable collapse of everything they had spent years trying to hold back.
Reed gasped, hands fisting into Victor’s jacket, pulling him closer, legs parting, body melting into it, into him.
Victor devoured him.
A mouth against his, sharp teeth scraping, a growl vibrating through both of them.
Hands gripping, roaming, no more hesitation, no more patience.
Victor was a storm, raging, consuming, unstoppable.
And Reed?
He was helpless against it.
Victor was done playing.
For hours, Reed had taunted him—smirking across the ballroom, touching Namor just to watch the fire in Victor’s eyes ignite, whispering things he knew would push Victor past the edge of reason.
And now?
Now, he was pinned, breathless beneath Victor’s weight, the last threads of his defiance unraveling as Victor pressed against him, holding him still, owning every inch of his body.
"You think you dictate the terms of this, Reed?" Victor murmured against his throat, voice like smoke and command, deep and dangerous.
Reed tried to smirk, but Victor caught the flicker of uncertainty in his breath, the slight hitch in his throat as Victor’s fingers tightened around his wrists.
"I—"
Victor silenced him with a sharp, teasing press of his lips against the corner of Reed’s mouth.
Not enough to satisfy.
Not enough to give him anything.
Just enough to torture.
"Speak properly when addressing me, Reed."
Reed’s breath shuddered out of him. Oh.
Victor felt that shiver, thrived on it.
"You wanted my attention so desperately," Victor continued, his fingers sliding beneath Reed’s shirt, bare now, hot against Reed’s stomach. "You earned it. But I will decide how you are rewarded."
Reed exhaled sharply, his body betraying him, arching into Victor’s touch before he could stop himself.
Victor laughed—low and dark, reveling in the way Reed shivered under him.
"You fight me, but your body knows its master."
Reed bit his lip, but Victor saw everything—the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers curled into the fabric of Victor’s coat like he was begging for something, anything.
"Say it," Victor commanded, his lips ghosting over Reed’s ear.
Reed swallowed hard. "Say what?"
Victor’s hand—hot, firm, possessive—slid lower.
Reed gasped.
"Say who you belong to."
Reed squeezed his eyes shut, every nerve in his body lit up with need, with want, with the thrill of being utterly, helplessly at Victor’s mercy.
"You first," Reed whispered, still trying to be a smartass, still clinging to his last scrap of defiance.
Victor growled—a low, primal thing that sent a shockwave straight through Reed.
Then, suddenly—
Victor pulled away.
The heat vanished.
The weight of Victor’s body, the intoxicating press of power, the fire in his touch—all of it gone.
Reed gasped at the loss, eyes snapping open in shock as Victor stepped back, watching him with a slow, satisfied smirk.
"Oh?" Victor murmured, tilting his head. "You think you still have the right to bargain?"
Reed’s body was on fire, his skin aching where Victor had been touching him just seconds ago.
Victor saw it. Felt it.
And he smirked.
"If you want me to touch you again, Richards—" Victor’s voice was a low purr now, rich with amusement and complete control— "you’re going to have to beg."
Reed’s pride screamed at him to fight.
To smirk. To make another sharp remark.
But his body?
His body was already betraying him, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his pulse pounding in his throat, in his wrists where Victor had been holding him just moments ago.
Victor knew it.
"Look at you," Victor mused, so satisfied, drinking in the sight of Reed panting against his desk, desperate and needing and still fighting it.
"You were so eager to tempt me," Victor continued, his fingers tracing the edge of Reed’s jaw, his grip light now—not restraining, not forcing, just a tease, something just out of reach.
"And now?" Victor murmured, his lips ghosting just barely over Reed’s cheek.
"Now you don’t know what to do with yourself, do you?"
Reed’s breath stuttered.
He hated that Victor was right.
He loved that Victor was right.
Victor leaned in, his lips brushing against Reed’s but never closing the distance.
Never giving him what he wanted.
"Beg for it, Reed."
Reed whimpered.
That sound—helpless, needy—was Victor’s undoing.
Victor snapped.
One second of restraint left, then nothing.
Victor took his mouth, crushed their bodies together, swallowed every breath, every sound, owned every inch of him.
And Reed?
Reed had never felt so completely conquered in his life.
fin.