Doom sat beside his mother’s bed and he understood the gesture clearly.

His hands rested on his knees, looked at Cynthia’s face, at the peaceful set of her features, at the chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

He had memorized her face from photographs and from the few memories old enough to be unreliable. He was reassembling her from this new proximity, checking the correspondence between memory and reality, making sure the account was correct.

She was here... She was real and more importantly, she was breathing.

The sound came before the figures, footsteps crossing rubble at a run, the particular cadence of urgency overriding caution.

Then two women came through the collapsed section of the east wall, stepping over stone and debris, and behind them came the ordered ranks of Doombots moving in disciplined formation, their sensors sweeping the wreckage.

Lucia von Bardas was first through the gap. Her expression cycled through several things in rapid succession as she took in the scene: the castle in ruins, the rubble and the scorched stone and the evidence of forces that had no business operating at this scale in this country, Doom stripped of his armor and sitting in the wreckage in his base layer with visible burns across his skin.

"My league," she said, and her voice had the sharp edge of someone exercising restraint over considerably stronger feelings. "What happened? Where is your armor? Who did this to you?"

Valeria came through the gap a step behind her, and she was doing the assessment faster than Lucia was articulating it. She took in the burns, took in the absent armor, took in Doom’s posture, the quality of his stillness, the woman on the bed.

Her expression was controlled but her eyes were worried in the particular way of someone who would not say they were worried.

"Victor," she said, quieter than Lucia, "are you all right?"

Doom did not respond immediately. He was still looking at his mother.

Then something happened that neither Lucia nor Valeria had seen before, something that the Doombots recorded and that would remain in their memory banks without being classified under any of their existing behavioral models.

Victor von Doom, sitting in the ruins of his castle with burns across his body and his armor dissolved and everything around him turned to rubble, laughed.

It was not a theatrical laugh. It was not the controlled, deliberate sound he used as a rhetorical instrument in council sessions or when he was making a point about the foolishness of opposing him. It was an actual laugh, low and genuine, the sound of a man who found the outcome of a long and terrible night to be, in the end, acceptable.

"Everything went well," he said, and his voice was steady, "and went accordingly to the plan."

Lucia stared at him. "The castle is in ruins," she said.

"Castles can be rebuilt," Doom said.

"You’re injured," Valeria said, her eyes on the burns.

"I have survived considerably worse," he said.

"Where is your armor?" Lucia pressed.

"Disintegrated," he said. "But it is not relevant."

Both women looked at each other, exchanging the glance of two people who have arrived at the same conclusion by different routes.

Then both of them looked at the woman on the bed, at the features that matched the photographs they had both seen at various points in their time with Doom.

"Is that," Valeria started.

"My mother," Doom said. "Yes."

The word landed in the space between them with more weight than it contained. Valeria was quiet for a moment. Lucia straightened, her expression cycling toward something careful. The Doombots held their formation, awaiting orders.

"She’ll wake up in a few hours," Doom said, preempting the next question. "She is currently unharmed. But she will require care and time, and will also require being somewhere that is not a ruin when she opens her eyes."

He looked up at the Doombots. "Begin restoration of the castle. Primary residence sections first. Move her to a prepared room before she wakes."

The Doombots responded with the immediate, precise compliance of machines that understood orders and nothing else. They dispersed into the wreckage in organized teams, the sound of structured, purposeful work beginning to fill the hall where there had been only the silence of destruction.

Lucia watched them for a moment, then looked back at Doom.

"You said it went according to the plan," she said.

"It did," Doom said.

"Victor," Valeria said, and when she used his name instead of his title it had a different quality, less formal, more direct. "You don’t have to explain everything right now. But you should let someone look at those burns."

"I will," he said, which surprised her enough that she didn’t immediately follow up. He glanced at her. "I will, shortly. But not yet."

She accepted that with a brief nod and did not push.

Doom looked back at his mother’s face. He reached out and rested his hand, briefly, on hers, and then withdrew it, as if the gesture were something he needed to do quietly and without observation even though both women were standing ten feet away.

He looked up, past the rubble, past the broken walls, at the sky above Latveria.

The clouds above the castle had reformed in the hours since Ethan’s arrival, and they were still moving in patterns that did not quite correspond to local atmospheric conditions, trailing shapes that the more imaginative part of Victor von Doom’s mind read as vast wings, spreading from a center point above the galaxy’s heart outward past any horizon he could conceive of.

Ethan, he thought, had done this. He had come here personally. He had dealt with Mephisto, returned his mother, Cynthia to him. He had given him scars that he deserved and not one mark beyond what he deserved. He had called him old friend and meant it, because Ethan was the kind of man who meant what he said regardless of the circumstances.

Victor von Doom was not a man who thanked people. He was not a man who expressed debts openly, who acknowledged the weight of obligations received.

His philosophy, refined over years of building and defending and maintaining what he had built, was that Doom owed no one and no one owed Doom, because that was the cleanest kind of existence.

But now he was looking at his mother’s face, and she was breathing, and the clouds above were shaped like a bird spreading its wings across the universe, and the scarred man sitting in the ruins of his castle thought, ’Thank you, Ethan. You are the best friend that Doom could ask for in this life.’

He didn’t say it aloud, he didn’t need to.

Because he had a strange feeling the clouds above him were somehow aware of his response.

...

[Carter Residence, Metropolis — September 2010, Midnight]

The portal closed behind them without a sound.

Ethan and Didi stepped into the darkened living room and the familiar quiet of the house settled around them immediately. The lights were off.

His Genesis Awareness spread through the building in a passive sweep and found five signatures, all of them slow and deep with sleep. Anna in her room. Jean in hers. Diana, Susan, and Elizabeth each in their own. The whole house was still and breathing and safe.

He exhaled and let the last of his power registers wind down to idle.

He crossed to the sofa and sat down. The cushions took his weight and he leaned back, arms loose at his sides, and for a moment he just let himself exist in the silence without doing anything at all.

Didi sat on his lap. She settled herself there with complete comfort, swung her legs to one side, and wrapped both arms around him like this was the most natural arrangement available in a furnished house.

He looked at her, then looked at the sofa beside them, the armchair across the room, and the three other seating options visible from where he was sitting.

He put his right hand on her waist and pulled her closer. His left hand reached up and tucked a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear.

"Not that I mind," he said, "but there is a lot of space in this house with multiple sofas and several chairs, all of them empty." He tilted his head. "Why is my lap always seems to be your destination for rest?"

Didi smiled and her dark eyes looked at him with easy warmth. "Because your lap is the best seat available." She paused, and the corner of her mouth curved further. "It is like how you like girls with big breasts."

Ethan laughed out loud, "You know, I was going to ask what else you know about the things I like, but I think you will answered a completely different question."

Didi’s expression stayed playful. "I know what else you like."

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you."

"Yes," she said simply, and kissed him.

He kissed her back, one hand still at her waist, and the quiet house stayed quiet around them.

When they broke apart Didi looked at him and her expression shifted, the playfulness settling into something more direct. "Ethan," she said. "Declaring yourself like that to the whole universe. Is that truly all right with you?"

He was quiet for a moment, his hand stayed at her waist.

"Mephisto came at me because he thought I was someone who could be pushed," he said. "He threatened the people I care about because he thought that would work."

His voice was even. "He is not the only dimensional lord in this universe. There are beings here who outrank him, and every single one of them was watching to see how I handled it."

He met her eyes. "So I handled it in the loudest way I could. I killed him, sent the message across the cosmic web, and now anyone who is thinking about testing me has a clear data point to consult before they make that decision."

His arm tightened around her slightly as he looked at her directly. "And I did not want you living in my universe, constantly fearing that someone might figure out who you really are. I already know how uncomfortable it was for you to restrict yourself every day. So I decided to do something about it. You are here because you chose this life—you wanted to live like a human. Most importantly, you chose to be here with me... and with them."

His expression softened. "I want this place to be somewhere you can truly live. Not in fear, but with happiness—with all the good things life can offer. I want you, me, Anna, Jean, Diana, and Susan to live a life where we can all be happy together and build a future together."

A faint, genuine smile touched his lips. "Always and forever."

He held her gaze. "You deserve that. And I am going to make sure you have it. That is a promise."

Didi looked at him for a moment with those dark, warm eyes. Then she giggled, bright and genuine, and leaned in, and they fell sideways together into the sofa cushions in a slow, unhurried tangle.

Ethan knew where this was going, so he immediately activated his Chronokinesis. The entire living room turned green for a brief second before returning to normal.

He had slowed time itself—just enough so he could truly enjoy this moment with Didi.

On the plush, oversized sofa, their bodies were already entwined, breathing lost to the heated urgency of their mouths.

Ethan’s hands were already buried in Didi’s hair, the silky black strands cool against his superheated skin. Their kiss wasn’t a beginning; it was a continuation, a relentless force that had been simmering all evening.

Her lips, painted a stark, glossy black, tasted like night and desire. He could feel her teeth behind them, sharp and eager. His tongue pushed into her mouth, claiming the wet, hot space, and she met him with equal ferocity, her own tongue sliding against his with a practiced, hungry rhythm.

She moaned into the kiss, a sound that vibrated through his chest. His hands slid down from her hair, over the smooth leather of her dress—a tight, black thing that he’d already peeled down to her waist.

Her bare skin was a shock of pale against the dark fabric, cool at first touch but rapidly warming under his palms. He broke the kiss only to breathe, his blue eyes locking onto her black ones.

In the dim light, they were bottomless pools, but they held a fierce, living fire that belonged only to him.

"I need you," she whispered, the words a breathy command. "Now."

He didn’t answer with words. His hands found the straps of her dress and pulled, the material yielding with a soft tear. It wasn’t carelessness; it was the impatient strength of a being who could bend steel.

The dress fell away, pooling around her hips on the sofa. Her breasts were freed, full and heavy, the pale skin almost luminous in the darkness. They fit his hands perfectly, as they always did—a divine geometry of desire. He cupped them, his thumbs brushing over the peaks, feeling the nipples harden instantly under his touch.

He leaned down and took one into his mouth.

The sensation was electric for her. A sharp gasp tore from her lips as his tongue circled the rigid peak, hot and wet and insistent.

He suckled, pulling the flesh into his mouth, tasting the salt of her skin. His other hand kneaded the opposite breast, his fingers working the soft, pliant weight, pinching the nipple gently, then with more pressure.

She arched off the sofa cushions, her back bowing, her hands clawing into his blonde hair.

"Ethan... harder."

He obeyed. His bite was careful but firm, his teeth applying a delicious pressure that sent a jolt straight to her core. She cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed in the spacious room.

He switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same dedicated attention, his tongue painting wet circles, his lips sucking until the skin bloomed a rosy pink.

Her hands were already on him, tearing at his simple t-shirt. It ripped at the seams, another casualty of their impatience. His chest, the Greek god physique sculpted by power and eternity, was exposed. She ran her nails down the hard ridges of his abdomen, feeling the muscle tense under her touch. Her palms slid lower, to the waist of his pants, and she fumbled with the button and zipper.

He helped her, pushing the fabric down his legs in one rough motion. His erection sprung free, thick and long, a proud testament to his own inhuman vitality. It pressed against her thigh, hot and insistent.

"Lie back," he growled, his voice low and thick with need.

She obeyed, sinking into the deep cushions of the sofa. He moved over her, his body covering hers, a warm, powerful weight that pinned her gently. His knees settled between her legs, pushing them wider. She was already wet, her moisture slicking her inner thighs. He didn’t need to check; he could smell her arousal, the intimate perfume that drove him mad. They both didn’t need foreplay.

He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against her entrance. She was tight, but she was also ready, her body opening for him as naturally as a flower to the sun. He didn’t push slowly. He drove forward, a single, deep, claiming thrust that buried him inside her to the root.

Her gasp was a sharp, shattered thing. Her eyes flew wide, her black lips parting in a silent ’O’ of shock and pleasure. He was so deep. She felt him everywhere, stretching her, filling her, the sensation so intense it bordered on pain—but it was a pain she craved, a delicious threshold she loved to cross.

He held there, buried, letting her feel the full, unmoving weight of his invasion. Then he withdrew, almost completely, and slammed back in.

"Yes!" she screamed, her hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the hard muscle there.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a piston-like rhythm, each thrust a deliberate, powerful impact. He fucked her with the stamina of a superhuman, a pace that would have shattered a normal man or woman within minutes. But they were both eternal in their capacity. His hips worked, driving into her, the sofa cushions absorbing the force of their movement only thanks to the enhancement spell by Ethan. The sound was wet and thick, a rhythmic slap of flesh meeting flesh, punctuated by her sharp, escalating cries.

His hands never left her breasts. Even as he drove into her, he palmed them, squeezed them, folded them together so he could pinch both nipples at once.

The dual sensation—the deep, pounding penetration and the sharp, sweet torment on her peaks—made her mind spiral. Her hips rose to meet every thrust, her own strength matching his, creating a furious synergy.

"Fuck me!" she begged, the words torn from her throat. "Don’t stop! Never stop!"

He didn’t. His pace increased. The sofa began to creak under the force. The city lights blurred outside the glass as her vision swam. She could feel every inch of him, the ridged texture, the heat, the perfect fullness. Her climax began to build, a tight, coiling pressure in her belly, but she fought it. She wanted more. She wanted everything.

After what felt like an hour—a relentless, pounding hour—he suddenly pulled out.

She cried out in protest, her body aching with sudden emptiness.

"Turn over," he commanded, his voice rough.

She scrambled, her body slick with sweat, and got onto her knees on the sofa, facing the backrest.

He moved behind her, his hands immediately grasping her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He didn’t guide himself back in. He just pushed, his cock finding her soaked entrance and plunging back inside with one brutal, re-claiming stroke.

She groaned, a deep, guttural sound, as he filled her again. This angle was different. Deeper, somehow. He hit a spot inside her that made her eyes roll back.

His hands tightened on her hips, holding her steady as he began a new rhythm. This was faster, more animalistic. Each thrust rocked her entire body forward, her breasts swaying heavily with the motion. He leaned over her back, his chest pressing against her spine, his mouth finding her shoulder and biting down.

The bite was sharp, a possessive mark. She screamed his name. "Ethan!"

He fucked her like that, a relentless machine, for another long stretch of time. The sofa was now damp with their sweat, the leather slick. Her cries were constant, a stream of pleas and encouragement. "Harder! Go harder! Please, I need it harder!"

He obeyed, his thrusts becoming so forceful that her knees slid on the cushions. He pulled her back against him, his grip iron-tight.

Then, without warning, he pulled out again and lifted her.

Her body was weightless to him. He turned her, cradling her against his chest, and then sat back on the sofa, pulling her onto him so she straddled his lap.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, her ankles locking behind his back. He entered her again, this slow, deep join feeling like a homecoming. They were face to face, their mouths crashing together in another searing kiss.

This position was intimate, close. He could watch her face, see every flicker of pleasure and pain. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, the soft mounds flattening against his hard pectorals.

His hands cupped her ass, holding her steady as he began to move. The thrusts here were controlled, deep rolls of his hips that ground him inside her. She moaned into his mouth, her tongue dancing with his.

"You feel... so good," she gasped between kisses. "So deep."

He growled, his hands moving from her ass to her breasts again. He folded them together, pressing the soft flesh from both sides, and pinched her nipples hard, rolling the sensitive peaks between his thumb and forefinger. She cried out, her body convulsing around him, her inner muscles clamping down on his cock in a sudden, fierce squeeze.

He grunted, the sensation almost making him lose his rhythm. But his stamina was boundless. He maintained the pace, the deep, grinding thrusts, while his fingers tortured her nipples with delicious precision.

Time bled away. They moved again, without ever fully separating. He stood, lifting her with him, her legs still wrapped around him. He carried her to the vast glass door that looked out over the city.

He leaned her back against the cool glass, the surface a shock against her heated skin. He supported her weight easily, his arms under her thighs, and drove into her again, standing.