i was wondering if there were any fic recs where ted lasso and (at least some of) afc richmond go to america to visit and see how it is ‘cross the pond with their coach to experience him in his element or something :))
I'm not familiar with any short fics with this premise, but this longer OT3 fic has a great section in it where Keeley, Jamie, and Roy all visit Ted in Kansas post S3.
The fic is also just phenomenal, so I recommend it regardless!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
i was wondering if there were any fic recs where ted lasso and (at least some of) afc richmond go to america to visit and see how it is ‘cross the pond with their coach to experience him in his element or something :))
Part 3 might take a bit longer, going on a trip :']
also everyone say thank you @/ctrl-shift-alt-9 for their Iron Lung transcript, the doc is a GODSEND and I need to try to get my hands on an IL dvd otherwise I can and will re-read the doc over and over again for funsies lol
Statistically Speaking - Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Three: Dana Evans
Series Summary: After completing your residency, you join the staff at the Pitt, the hospital where your husband of nearly ten years (who you already have five kids with) works. With a common last name and radically different personalities, you make a bet on how long it'll take everyone to figure out that you're married.
Chapter Summary: Dana's the one to catch you in the bathroom when you come down with a stomach bug.
Content: vomiting/emetophobia, discussion of pregnancy
A/N: love this one i fear she's very cute and waaahh to me
Word Count: 3.5k
You make it through two full months with nobody finding out about you and Brendon, everybody in on it keeping their lips zipped and everyone else happily oblivious, but that changes one random day when you wake up feeling like shit.
“You should just stay home, baby,” Brendon murmurs as he watches you slog through getting dressed, clearly exhausted and feeling off. “The ED can survive without you for one day.”
You shake your head and insist, “All I need is breakfast and a coffee and I’ll be all set. Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Alright, I trust you,” he sighs, dropping down so he can tie your shoes the way he has every morning for more than 3,000 days. “Take it easy though. For me. There’s that nasty bug going around and if this is the start of it-”
“I’m fine, Bren,” you assure as he stands up. “You worry too much.”
He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sweet,” you reply, nudging up to kiss him softly. You know he only worries about your health so much because he had to watch you nearly lose your life a few years ago; you’re sure you’d be ten times as bad if the roles were reversed. “Let’s go get the kids up, yeah?”
He nods solemnly. “I’ll start pancake duty.”
You pat his ass and push him toward the bedroom door. “Good boy.”
Annoyingly, though, you really aren’t feeling better by the time you’ve had your coffee and breakfast and snuggles with your mama’s boy. Still, you take a deep breath, get the little ones in their car seats, and head to the hospital with a determination to get through the day since you have the next two off.
You don’t even make it to lunch.
Your breakfast decides to make a dramatic reappearance out of nowhere, sending you running to the staff bathroom at code speeds. After puking, your skin is about ten shades grayer than usual while you slide down the wall next to the bathroom trash, head spinning and forehead shining with sweat.
The next person to push inside the bathroom is Dana, having watched you hustle away with an expression every mom recognizes when there’s a bug going around. When she spots you, she immediately drops down and touches the back of your clammy forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but, Jesus, you look terrible.”
“Thanks for that.” You grimace as she grabs one of the little paper cups and fills it with water for you to sip on.
“You’ve gotta go home; you look like you’re gonna pass out. Can I call someone for you?”
Shit, you left your phone in your locker this morning. You manage to mumble out as much to her and say, “If you have your phone, I can tell you my husband’s number.”
He picks up on the last ring after excusing himself from supervising a more-than-capable resident, knowing an unknown number could easily be the kids’ school or daycare. “Hello?”
Your voice creaks through. “Hi, hon, I left my phone in my locker. Borrowing Dana’s. I think I’ve got the bug that’s going around. I’ve been throwing up for like half an hour.”
“I’m so sorry you’re sick, sweetheart,” he soothes softly. “You need me to come down and take you home?”
Dana’s head cocks to one side. That’s a familiar voice, but she can’t quite place it because she’s never heard it sounding sympathetic before.
“Yeah, I think so,” you reply, feeling defeated and exhausted. “This thing’s really knocked me on my ass. Literally, actually. I’m on the bathroom floor.”
Brendon’s voice gains intensity as it lowers in volume. “Are you okay? How serious is this?”
“I’m alright,” you reassure him, “just needed to sit down somewhere cool and quiet. Dana’s here with me being amazing. You’ll come down soon?”
“Yeah, baby, of course,” he sighs tenderly. You hear him shuffling things around, already reorienting his day at the first sign of you needing him. “I’ve got one more quick post-op and then I’ll grab you, okay? Can you find somewhere to hang tight until then?”
“Mhm,” you offer queasily. “I’ll wait for you in Occupational Health, maybe? I can lay down and get some meds there at least.”
“That’s a good idea. Tell them I want blood and cultures. Don’t forget that you want trimethobenzamide, not Zofran, for the nausea. Zofran always makes you too fatigued.”
“Yes, doctor,” you reply with an eye roll. But when the eye roll makes the world spin which makes your stomach flip, you groan, “Thanks, Bren.”
As she puts all the baffling dots together, Dana steps in and tells him, “I’ll bring her up to OT. She looks like she could go down any second, so I’m gonna stick with her.”
Brendon sighs. You know he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to stop himself from getting too upset that he can’t fix everything right away. “Thanks, Dana, I’ll see you both soon.”
Dana manages to get you to Occupational Health without catching any stray questioning stares. After being briefed on your symptoms, the OT nurse gives you a sympathetic smile as she preps her kit. “It’s probably the flu, but we’re going to draw some blood and take a couple cultures just to be safe, alright?”
Dramatically presenting your arm for the poke, you murmur, “As if my husband would let me leave without a battery of tests for a seasonal virus half a Pittsburgh has.”
She smiles knowingly. “Park definitely seems like the protective type.”
“Park the fuckin’ Shark,” Dana sighs, still disbelieving, as she shakes her head. “So tell me: Was he nice when you first met or were you mean?”
Seeing Brendon’s broad form in the corner of your eye, you turn toward him and sigh romantically, “He’s always nice to me.”
The moment he catches your eye, Brendon’s expression softens. Dana’s never seen that before. He strides quickly to your side and takes your free hand as the nurse does your blood draw. With a quick squeeze to your palm, he asks gently, “How’s the patient feeling?”
You tilt your head back and pout. “Supremely crappy. Sorry, baby, I know you told me to stay home this morning.”
Brendon shakes his head and presses his lips to your hair. “Never apologize for needing my help; that’s the job. You’ve been nauseous half of your adult life and you’re used to pushing through it. Shit happens. Let’s just get you home, baby.”
Dana watches the exchange with befuddled eyebrows. Suddenly the mountain of a frown she’s come to know is a gentle giant, his eyes concerned and his expression tender. He’s had baby blue eyes this whole time? Jesus. She never would’ve guessed after avoiding eye contact so long. She gestures broadly and half-laughs as she asks Brendon, “You’re telling me all those precious angels she’s got covering the inside of her locker belong to you? The meanest man in the hospital?”
“Guilty as charged,” Brendon confirms as he once again kisses the top of your head. He’s rubbing your back, too, unable to stop touching you as a way of grounding himself. “We’ve been together almost ten years now.”
She whistles, impressed. Turning to you while the nurse disappears with your tests, she asks, “Any reason you don’t talk about him at work besides the fact that he’s undeniably awful?”
“I talk plenty about my husband,” you laugh softly, not able to muster much energy to tease, “you all just don’t think my cute stories could be about him.”
Suddenly recontextualizing countless adorable accounts, Dana disbelievingly says, “Brendon Park takes his girls to their father-daughter dances every year in a tie that matches their dress. Brendon Park writes notes for his kids’ lunchboxes and takes them all on dad dates so they don’t miss out on quality time with him.” She shakes her head and laughs, “No wonder he keeps his family a secret; I think you might be the sweetest man in the world, Dr. Park. I’m never gonna look at you the same way again.”
“That’s all hearsay,” Brendon snaps back through a chuckle. Then he sighs and tells her, “Look, surgery may be my life, but those kids are my world. Family’s everything.”
Dana can’t help smiling. “God, now I’m gonna be sick.”
You make kissy lips at Brendon and say, “I tell you guys all the time: My husband’s a huge softie.”
Brendon shakes his head and jokingly covers your ears with his hands. “She’s delirious; don’t listen to a word she says.” Then, while you get cleared to leave, he nudges Dana on the arm and adds, “Hey, don’t tell anyone about us, alright? We’ve got a whole bet going.”
And she gives the only response heard in the Pitt: “Can I get in on the action?”
Just as you’re about to go home after your first shift back a few days later, feeling much better after resting and hydrating as with Brendon’s mom coming over to dote on the kids, Dana touches you on the shoulder. Her eyes are sharp and her voice is low. “Do you have a few minutes?”
You glance at your watch. Brendon’s grabbing the boys from daycare, so you can spare a few minutes. “Now?”
She nods and you can see something serious hiding behind her eyes. Immediately you worry about the particularly fragile patient she assisted you with a few hours ago. “No time like the present.”
“Um, yeah, alright.”
She leads you into a private room and closes the door behind her. Inside, she picks up a chart and a few packets of paper she had waiting.
Swallowing hard as your mind easily supplies all sorts of horrible news, you check, “Is this about a patient?”
“Ah, kind of,” she replies, gesturing for you to sit on the bed. You hop up and she steps closer. After a deep breath, she hands over the clipboard – your chart from your visit to OT last week – and says, “No point beating around the bush, I say. You’re pregnant.”
The floor falls out from under you.
Your ears start to ring. Staring down at the litany of blood tests, your eyes settle on that firm POSITIVE next to a sky-high hCG level.
While your heart thuds its way into your throat, Dana adds softly, “I’m guessing you’re already well into your first trimester based on those numbers. Maybe 10, 12 weeks.”
Not quite processing, you blink fast and ramble out, “I- I’m so good about my birth control pills. Same time every day. Never miss them. With five kids, you don’t miss your birth control.”
“I read over your chart, honey,” she explains, standing next to you now so she can place a hand on your upper back. “One of the medications you’re on – the modafinil, for your sleep issues – reduces the effectiveness of hormonal birth control.”
Tears sting at your eyes as you scoff, feeling stupid and confused and jarred, “How did I not know that? I’m a fucking doctor.”
“You’re not a psychiatrist. If they didn’t tell you that, you should sue as far as I’m concerned.” She hands you a couple stapled packets of paper and a pamphlet. Studies, you realize. “Look, take a day and talk about it with your husband, whatever you need to do, but if you decide to stay pregnant, you’ll need to stop taking it because first trimester exposure can cause some complications and malformations.”
If the floor fell out of you at the first news, it’s the ceiling flying off this time. Your hand goes over your mouth as you choke back a sob. “Oh, god.”
“Don’t go panicking yet,” she soothes, rubbing your back how your mother would when you were little. “The chance is still low and you know as well as I do there are things we can screen for and most of them are fixable, treatable, or manageable even if they’re present. All your numbers look fantastic and you’ve got a nice long history of healthy pregnancies, right?”
You wipe the tears from your cheeks and take a deep breath, steadying yourself as much as you can. “Right. Right, yeah. Okay. Everything’s okay.”
Dana gives you a sympathetic, understanding smile. “Do you want a minute alone? Or I can walk you out to your car?”
You sniffle and try to force your face into a grateful expression, genuinely thankful she’s being so kind and taking the time to be supportive. “That would be nice.”
With her voice low and her arm slung protectively around your shoulder, Dana guided you out of the back entrance and to your waiting car. She says goodbye with a tight hug that lingers, promising you everything will be okay.
Then, alone in your car, your mind finally settled enough to relax, you feel that tiny little spark.
Underneath the shock, underneath the panic, underneath the confusion, peeking out like a sprout growing through a crack in the concrete, there’s that familiar bloom of pure love. That soft, sacred, quiet thing that grows unrelentingly inside of you when everything else threatens to crumble.
Love without boundaries, without conditions, without a name. The same love that has you sewing custom Halloween costumes, baking preschool graduation cakes, and wiping sniffly noses all cold season long. A love made from you and the man who’s rerouted and dedicated his entire life to making sure you and your children are safe and adored.
As you turn over the engine, you touch your lower abdomen and murmur softly, “We’re doing this again, aren’t we?”
You hate to say it, but you’re grateful when Brendon is pulled into an emergency surgery at the end of the day, sending his mom to pick up the boys at daycare. It’s nice to have some time to think while you make dinner and help the older ones with homework.
While everyone settles into the evening, you catch yourself watching the kids playing with each other, leaning in the doorway with a soft, far away expression. You’d felt so finished having kids after Felix, but suddenly you can see another baby to bounce as you chase the others around. You can see it so clearly that your eyes sting with tears. Even when you imagine that baby with any myriad of complications, you love it. You want it.
Late that night, all the kids in bed save your littlest one, Felix is half-asleep on your chest, his thumb in his mouth while you watch the TV on low. You just can’t bear to stop moments like this when you know they’re so fleeting. Running your fingers through his hair, just like Brendon’s downy waves, you murmur, “What do you think about becoming a big brother, little man?”
He stirs slightly and gives you a heavy-lidded smile. With a half-giggle that always melts you, he muses, “Baby sister?”
“Baby something,” you confirm gently. “I just have to tell daddy.”
He nods as if knowingly, nestling his forehead into your side. “Daddy happy.”
“I hope so.”
“Know so.”
You’ve convinced yourself that you’ll manage to wait to tell Brendon until after he’s had a solid night’s sleep. But then he comes home. And, in a matter of minutes, you remember it’s impossible for you to keep a secret from him, especially one this big. That’s the problem with being married to your best friend; he’s the one person you want to talk about everything with, even when it’s not the best time.
“I got my bloodwork back,” you tell him tentatively as you watch him go through his bedtime routine from the bed, “and I don’t have the flu.”
After he finishes flossing, he heads into the closet and asks, “Norovirus?”
Your hands start to sweat. This feels very, very different from your other pregnancies. The shadow of Felix’s birth clouds you both. You swallow hard and squeak out, “Not quite.”
Stepping out in nothing but his boxers, a few droplets of water still on his chest from his recent shower, Brendon sits next to you on the bed and cups your cheek. With a furrowed brow, he urges, “I can read you like a book, angel. Spit it out.”
Searching his blue eyes for any islands to rest away from your anxiety, you whisper, “I’m pregnant.”
Every time you’ve told him before, he’s scooped you up into his arms and spun you around and celebrated. This time, the blood drains from his face. His palms go clammy. The world stills.
After a minute, he asks in a voice that’s jumbled up with fear and grief and love and hope and desperation, “You want us to keep it?”
“I think so,” you reply quietly, “but not if you don’t want another-”
“I’d raise as many kids as you’d give me, baby, that’s not what I’m nervous about.” Brendon turns to you, clutches your hands in his, and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear an Etch-a-Sketch. Through tears that just won’t stop falling, he whispers, “After everything last time, after I almost- almost fucking lost you, I don’t know if I can- if I can handle it.”
You rush back, “That won’t happen again, Bren.”
“You can’t know that for sure.”
Brushing his wet cheeks with your thumbs, you remind him, “I can know it to 99.99994 percent based on the latest research. We both know the odds are astronomical that that complication would happen more than once.”
Unable to speak, Brendon buries his face in your shoulder and takes a deep breath. His arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you effortlessly into his lap to hold you as tight to him as possible.
You massage his scalp with your fingertips and soothe, “I’m okay, Bren. I’m just pregnant.”
“I know, baby, I know.” He pulls back and kisses your hand over and over with his eyebrows pinched together. “But you’re older now, and-”
“Sweetheart, I’m not even thirty,” you chuckle and shake your head. “The average woman hasn’t even started having babies by my age.”
“You’re really on one with the statistics tonight,” he half-laughs, wiping his tears and taking a deep breath. After a minute of studying your features the way he always has when he wishes he could read your thoughts, he checks, “Are you sure?”
You nod and give him the first secretive smile. “Completely.”
Brendon hugs you close once again and sighs out all his fears with his next breath. “Then I’m sure with you.” Sliding his strong arms beneath your ass, he offers a mischievous smile and asks, “Feel secure?”
You roll your eyes and grin and nod – and he hoists you up into the air. Letting out a needed laugh, you lock your legs around him and kiss him hard as he spins you around. With your forehead pressed to his, you giggle out, “We’re gonna have a baby.”
“I love you so fucking much,” he says, kissing across your cheeks. Once he’s got you laughing and thrilled, he flops you back on the bed and kisses your stomach. Finally, propped on his elbows next to you, that boyish smile of his blooms in full force. He says seriously, “At least this means we have some wiggle room for our ultimate frisbee lineup. Margot’s not exactly shaping up to be an athlete with all her musical theater.”
You snort run your fingers through Brendon’s hair as he rests his head on your stomach, eyes closed reverently as he once again reimagines his future with another baby. “Hear that, kiddo? Daddy’s gonna teach you to throw as soon as you’re out of there. Work extra hard on building up that right hook.”
“Nah, we need a Southpaw,” he corrects with the most adorable smile you’ve ever seen. Then he just shakes his head happily and snuggles closer to you, the picture of domestic bliss. As he softly kisses anywhere he can, he muses, “We’re gonna have to go ring shopping again.”
You poke him in the pec and balk, “You want me to wear a six carat diamond? My hand will fall off, Bren. We could send one of the kids to college with that.”
He holds up his hand to stop you in your tracks. “One carat per baby; that’s been my rule for a decade and I’m not about to betray my values now.”
With a snicker, you reach back and turn off your bedside lamp, getting cozy under the covers together. “I can’t even wear my ring to work.”
He counters, “But I like when you wear it on dates.”
“Because you like to show me off like some trophy wife.”
Dramatically, he sighs out, “God forbid a man be madly, spectacularly in love with a gorgeous woman and want everyone in a ten-foot radius to know.”
“Fine,” you relent, unable to stop smiling even in the dark, “six carats it is.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
this is it for this mini-arc wAHOO. Next one, i will warn you, will be a LOT of words, so get ready for reading. we're finally past the introductions yaaaay
very short one today, this is like,,, an interlude between chapters i guess, let's call it part 3.5
posting this mostly to ramble about the amalgamation of thoughts that make up this eldritch AU:
the idea is that the eldritch thing here isn't the iron lung god, or the eel, it is literally the tree that exploded out at the end of the movie
it gained consciousness/became an interdimensional eldritch being (through handwavey fuckery, idk) the moment it exploded out and it killed the eel
also healed simon,, lizard style, he obv aint human anymoe
the reason it is so fond of simon is because they fused and it gained simons memories (and most prominently of his fond and reverent memories of the tree on eden that the tree came out of)
(also of him taking care of the tree in some way, whether its tending to the soil or spilling blood to it)
somewhere in that logic this giant interdimensional plant thought "ah yes this lump of flesh gave me life and my freedom and it yearns for freedom therefore i shall search for a suitable habitat"
then it spent a few moments and an eternity scrolling through universes where it believed its charge would be happiest, found poor grace, saw the same cinematic parallels tumblr saw and said "aight thats the one"
it connected them like,,, cosmically
(not really relevant to the plot but it infected and changed grace the moment he reached back to it in his dreams to become like simon bc the lifespan difference between ryland and rocky devastates me on a daily basis)
(i don't think anyone mentioned it in the comments of part 3 (or at least i didnt see anyone mentioning it) but one of my favorite little details i added is that the tree roots gradually wrap around graces arm and around his ring finger) (hell yea, symbolism) (so i gave the other end of the tether to simon now :) )
another reason for the interlude is i realized that everything i wrote down was in graces pov so i figured id add a bit of simon before i wrap things up (even if hes unconcious)
thanks for listening to my ted talk, if anyone writes something about this begging on my knees send me a link, i find this stupid concept so interesting
Okay but as someone who also has EDS what if you did make it about EDS 👀 like idk about you but having an ortho bro around who knows what my joints are supposed to do an recognizes every time they’re doing something they’re not supposed to do would just be an incredibly amusing experience for me and probably an aneurysm inducing experience for them and really I think that’s what the best relationships are built on
with a sprinkle of Outdoorsy Bf!Park as well :)
It hadn't been a long or hard hike by any means. It was a simple trail with very little elevation and a staircase at the end.
It led to the most beautiful waterfall, the water mist reaching you even from your place across the small lake. With a smile, you look at Brendan and begin taking off your shirt, revealing your swimsuit underneath.
You make it to the waters edge, almost bounding into the water before a firm and gentle hand catches you. "Sunscreen first." Brendon says in your ear, too close for your brain to get the bearings it need to argue.
You sit on a rock as Brendon slathers sunscreen on your body, hands running over your body before stopping and feeling your shoulder again. Then again.
and again.
"Why didn't you tell me you had a shoulder issue?" he sounds almost hurt at the idea that you wouldn't tell him you were in pain. "Have you had this all morning?"
"What do you mean?" You ask. He lifts your arm with one hand, feeling the way your joint moves with the other hand. he starts mumbling to himself. "feels like a subluxation..."
"Oh-" you realize what's gotten him so upset. "Here- let me.."you pull your arm away and with a quick and practiced motion, set the bone back in place.
He looks horrified, in a word. "Baby?!"
You shrug, "Swimming?"
You get in the water before he can make a bigger deal of this.
Being reborn as the daughter of a psychotic, murderous alien from a comic book you kinda remember reading leads you to having to grit your teeth and play ‘loving daughter’ to avoid having your skull caved in. With daddy issues like that, is it really surprising that you go on to sexually torment the protagonist of said comic book? Not that he seems to mind.
(Mark Grayson x Reader)
Maybe you liked reincarnation and transmigration stories so much because it seemed so inconceivable of it being even close to plausible. Maybe if you knew the sheer fright you would feel in such a story, you wouldn’t have entertained the notion in the first place.
Well, being reborn into what you thought was a fictional world wouldn’t be too bad if you woke up in Pokemon. Now, that sounds like a good time. Getting to leave home as a minor and not having to worry about money when you can just beat the shit out of your fellow trainers seems pretty good, actually. Way better than your actual situation, cruelly so. In fact, you think God or whatever entity-concept-bitch that threw you into a new life should recompense you. Maybe if you monologued hard enough you’d be given what you’re owed—
Are you being dramatic? No. No, you’re not. And if you are, then maybe you’re allowed to be a little obnoxious when you have a bloodied behemoth of a man with a scarred face and metal arm staring down at you, expression not dissimilar to a feral animal with rabies.
Judging by how the screams and sound of buildings collapsing has long gone silent, you suspect that the alien world you were born into was now distinctly lacking its lifeforms. It’s almost a shame. Your new species looked like pretty space elves, like something out of a shut-in nerd’s erotic sci-fi fanfic.
You’re almost disappointed that you have to die as a toddler, you’re pretty sure you were going to grow up to be quite the beauty based on how your new mother looks—
Oh, she’s probably dead too.
You feel like you should be crying right now, but you remain motionless, pinned under the gaze of an apex predator that seeks to maul you, without the right to even grieve.
In the depths of your fractured mind, you realize that this doesn’t seem to be in character for the man, if you can even call him that, before you. You should already be dead, like an ant carelessly crushed by the heel of an uncaring giant. But you’re still alive.
He speaks, and your heart nearly stops.
“So, you are the one that your…mother sought to protect. Once, she was a fine warrior, ravenous and uncaring, but you made her…weak. Pathetic, even. It was almost a mercy to put her down, free her from the sad morsel of flesh she has degraded into.” He leans down now, fully looming above you, your wooden cradle acting less like protection and more like a trap, leaving you unable to escape.
“And for what? To nurture you beyond what her teat can offer—“
Does he have something against breastfeeding?
“—Viltrum had no tolerance, even when it came to weeping babes—“
Oh. You know who’s standing above you now, Negan voice be damned to the worst layer of hell.
“Yet, here you lie, a new generation of our dying empire; weak and disappointing. The only spawn I have sired, the only being in the universe that shares any blood with me—“
Anything else he says is drowned out by your own internal screaming. Your father is Conquest and he's a deadbeat. The unhinged psycho from yet another superhero comic that delights off suffering and broken bones.
But, this information, while horrifying, brings a clarity that washes over you like cold water. You’re currently a toddler, a Viltrumite one, sure, but a toddler, nonetheless, with a pathetic grip and too small limbs, reliant on your now dead mother to care for you. But you’re Conquest’s child. His family, even if the term is a foreign concept to him, and that makes you special. That gives you a chance to survive. You know his isolation, his loneliness. You know how easily Viltrumite pride crumbles when its few survivors found love on Earth, folding like a house of cards. Nolan was the outlier and then the rule.
The way of survival was clear to you, another remanent from your past life; play the fool, stupid and oblivious.
So, you embrace your new body and abandon shame, and throw your hands into the air, making grabby hands at the murderer, asking for ‘uppies’.
(You’d cry later.)
He ends his traumatizing soliloquy, going frighteningly silent.
Yeah. He looks like he’s going to kill you. So, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.
“Da!” You cry out, giving him a gummy smile.
Maybe you should have just let him kill you.
His face remains as impassive as stone but after another painfully long pause, he reaches down with bloodstained hands and picks you up, holding you from under your arms, large fingers completely covering your ribs.
“You are Viltrumite in blood only, your weakness would have had you purged—“
You let out a childish laugh, innocent and pure, desperate not to get ‘purged’ as he put it, “Silly da!”
That gets him to shut up. You ignore the way he flexes his fingers, the way they dig into your skin, more than capable of crushing your bones—
Your stupid, tiny hands grip his, as if willing—pleading him to not end your second life.
“You are so new to life, so sheltered, you cannot even comprehend who holds you, what I am even capable of doing. Your own mother has been slain by my hand,” he muses. “You truly…perplex me. Do you know who I am by sheer instinct? Does our blood tie us together so intrinsically?”
You kind of want to laugh at how much his words piss you off. What an annoying way to speak. Without even realizing it, your little fingers start to squeeze and you hear his surprised intake of breath. Your hand pulls away, to reveal the beginning of a bruise on his finger.
Oh, fuck.
“So young, and your powers are already appearing? This feeling, is it…” He lets out something similar to a laugh, ugly and unnatural, “There is value to you yet, child.”
He abruptly lets you go, and you fall back into your crib, too shocked to even yelp. Who drops a child!? The only thing you do is stare up at him in shock. He smiles down at you, and you almost piss yourself.
“You…are different. I will not take you with me. Do not fret, for I will be watching.” He promises, expression odd, “The being you will become, so unlike what we should be…I look forward to it. After all, you are mine.”
And as sudden as he appears, he’s gone. And you’re left, feeling slightly bruised, alone in your crib on a now dead planet.
How were you supposed to survive, exactly!?
*
You did survive. It seems like your planet had ties to the Coalition, who only arrived after everyone died. Pretty cowardly, really. But, you can’t really complain since they did retrieve you from your broken home , taking you with them. To fight for their cause, but beggars can’t be choosers in a brutal subversion of superhero media. Why couldn’t you have ended up in Venture Bros?
The cherry on top of this train wreck of a situation is that they immediately clocked you for being a half-Viltrumite, presenting you to their leader, Thaedus. Tad, as you sometimes called him, when you wanted to annoy him.
He trained you, along with many others, who drilled it into you to survive, to be stronger than the Viltrumites that threatened the safety of all life and freedom as you know it. You were their ace in the hole, their hunting dog, the hope of the Coalition. Mongrel and messiah in one. They made sure you were educated, well versed in their code of ethics. That your loyalty would always be to them. Questionable of them to do, frankly speaking, but they kept you clothed and fed, so you had no reason to protest.
The company wasn’t so bad at least. Under the Coalition, you’ve had the opportunity to meet a lot of people, from all ends of the universe, some kind, others absolutely terrified of your mere existence.
Allen fell into the former category, always seeking you out, sharing anecdotes from his missions and asking for you to share your own. And with Allen, came Telia, a higher ranking member than you both that you trusted to not spit on you for being ‘Viltrumite scum’ or whatever it was that some practically scornful cadets called you. Little did they know who their leader truly is.
*
You’d figure you wouldn’t see your ‘father’ after he killed your mom, but fate was unkind and Conquest is bat-shit insane. But at least he didn’t rat you out. You still wonder why he annihilated your home planet when you were clearly proof of compatible breeding. Honestly, genocide was a mercy compared to what you know they wanted to do to Earth, what they would probably do to you, if they caught wind. It was for the better they died, unfortunately. Even if their only survivor carried their legacy as recessive genes.
Not that you would ever ask him, even if you did often have the opportunity. Whenever you least expected it, when you were too concentrated on your mission, whether it was peacemaking or inspecting a new planet to add to the Coalition, he would appear, killing whatever adversary you were facing gleefully, expecting your gratitude and admiration for it, so you’d grit your teeth and call him ‘father’, despite the humiliation. You were still too weak, too scared to act how you wanted to. Which was to cave his skull in.
Other times, he would just follow you. Silent, like a spectre. Or a fucked up looking dog.
It was worse when he tried to copy the acts of physical affection you shared with others. His hugs usually broke one or two ribs and his head pats left you with a bump. You’re not even sure how he learned about them in the first place. Other times, they weren’t…too painful, at least.
*
“Child,” he calls after slaughtering the fleet you were leading on a recon mission. “You grow stronger, yet you still lack the true strength of an Viltrumite.”
“Is that so?” You laugh, good natured, noting Shez’s head by your feet. He was your pilot. A good man and father from what little you knew about him.
“Sometimes I wonder if I should have taken you with me, if I still should,” Conquest admits.
“That’s an interesting thought,” you smile stupidly, trying to keep the murder off your face.
“But you are…more interesting like this.” He concludes. And you wonder why someone like him was committing probably the highest level of treason. For some daddy-daughter time? The Empire obviously didn’t do family, bonds were meaningless to them, but apparently not to Conquest anymore. Did the isolation from his race finally get to him? Was he really that simple? That…lonely?
Another long moment of silence passes before he leaves you with your broken ship and dead crew.
“Okay?” You whisper, making eye contact with Shez.
*
You were on your way back to base after surveying a planet of bug people, they had no warriors or weaponry to speak of and their technology was nothing to write home about. Unfortunately, they had nothing to offer to the Coalition. At least that meant Viltrumites would have no interest in them either. No, that sounds wrong——
Your thoughts are cut off when you’re suddenly tackled mid-flight, and before you know it, you find yourself in a stone cube your father apparently dragged around as shelter. A house? Just without a bed. And everything else. It was sad and barren, only having some supplies and what looks like a…cake? On the ground before you, messily frosted a deep red colour. You hope that isn’t blood, actually.
“You told me once how some species choose to celebrate their day of birth. A foolish sentiment,” he rumbles, sitting before you.
You can kind of remember rambling about birthdays. You usually just say whatever pops up in your mind so his thoughts don’t swerve into killing you. The most terrifying thing about him was how we could go from looking like the psycho killer he is to giving you big, sad eyes. It almost humanized him.
“Oh, it’s not my birthday,” you start to say before noticing his expression, “It’s— it’s your birthday?”
“I do not recall when I was born.”
Neither of you say anything for a moment.
“You said there would be singing,” he scowls.
“Oh, well, only sometimes, like rarely, actually—“ you notice his glare, and duck your head. “Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…”
*
While you didn’t have to worry about debt or making something of yourself like in your past life, your current life was uniquely difficult.
You were growing wary (and scared) of having to placate your ‘father’. You don’t believe he would snitch to the Empire about your existence, that would be mutually assured destruction, so you were finding little reason to continue your ‘hangouts’ with him and you were beginning to worry if you were impacting the plot too much, god forbid your existence becomes the reason he survives.
So, you’re going to Earth, to hide yourself being the bigger, flashing target that was Mark Grayson. Let him deal with Conquest when the time came.
…and maybe you missed having a home. And the PlayStation, you definitely missed that.
And after years of having Conquest rough you up (break your bones and rupture your organs) to test your might, you weren’t looking forward to him trying to give you some type of sick ‘becoming an adult’ beating.
So, you told Thaedus you were going on leave, a vacation, really. You needed a break from the continued mess that was your life. What better than reliving the mess that was your past life instead? When your biggest worries were meeting the disappointment of your parents rather than having to placate your colonizer father.
“You want to go to Earth…? The planet that inhabits the only other half-Viltrumite we know of, that is currently the Empire’s main focus?” Thaedus blinks at you. "For fun?"
“What, I’m not allowed to sightsee? Take a load off? I see, so I don’t even have the right to take time off! I mean, I’m already a child soldier so I might as well be under Thragg’s rule—“
“And that’s the only reason?” Your fellow Viltrumite interrupts.
“What? Worried I’m going there to revive our dying civilization with Nolan’s son?” you tilt your head, smiling blandly.
And the conversation ended pretty quickly, after that. Not before he tried to once again ask you to bring your sperm doner over to your side. Which was another hard no. You were not going to mess with canon.
At least Allen seemed a little more thrilled.
“They really do grow up so fast,” Allen wipes a tear from his eye. “But, look at you, finally putting yourself out there, getting some work-life balance! Earth will love you! Well, some of them are pretty paranoid after the whole ‘Viltrumite killing thousands’ thing, but you’ll be fine! Just be yourself! Well, maybe not ‘yourself’—“
“Worried?” You tease.
“No, not at all!” He laughs nervously, “It’s just that sometimes you can be just a teensy bit…mean? Which I love! Great banter between us! It’s our thing! But, maybe, the Earthlings will see it as psychological warfare…?”
“Me? Mean? I wouldn’t say that, in fact, others would describe me as nothing but pleasant!” You chortle, disregarding everything he said, and Allen awkwardly joins you, muttering something under his breath that suspiciously sounded like a prayer.
*
Allen told you to just hang around the moon and someone would pop up to greet you. You hope it isn’t the Immortal.
You internally curse when the Immortal appears, rage clear on his face as he shoot’s up, ready to attack. How embarrassing of him, really.
You tackle him back into Earth’s stratosphere in a sudden burst of speed, breathing in sweet, probably polluted air.
“Take me to your leader?” You ask, arms stilled wrapped around his shoulders. “Or better yet, have him head over to me. A welcoming committee would be nice.”
He only lets out another shout, throwing a punch towards your face, so you grab his arm, throwing him over your shoulder before deigning to fly away then waste any more of your time trying to talk to a knockoff…Vandal Savage?
You instead head to New York City, normally known as a magnet for trouble, in any other reality than this one. You definitely stand out in your Coalition uniform, but people barely spare you a second glance from the park bench you’ve currently claimed as yours.
You watch a group of nearby pigeons fight over a hot dog bun before a presence blinks next to you. Honestly, Cecil’s teleportation was comparatively primitive to other civilizations you’ve come across. A lot more wasteful too.
A moment of silence passes and you can at least commend him for taking a seat next to you. You’re sure that he has a bunch of weapons and satellites honed in on you, but it’s brave of him regardless. Maybe you should thank Allen for opening a bridge in the first place. You doubt he’d be as chill if you weren’t wearing your uniform.
“So, I hear you have a Viltrumite problem,” you start, smiling.
“And I should assume you’re not here to add on to that?” He asks wryly. “Not here to spread word of the Viltrum Empire?”
You laughed as if he actually said something funny, “You know that not all of us were raised like that. No, there are outliers that weren’t indoctrinated from birth. Not of pure blood. Me…and Nolan’s kid. Is he too busy to say hi?”
“Extremely.” He narrows his eyes at you, and you can tell you’ve unsettled him. Oh, Mark wasn’t here was he? Looks like little Oliver would be arriving soon.
He meets your gaze, “I’m going to be blunt. I already figured you weren’t a hostile force because of your ‘friend’ already popping by, but I thought your little group was too busy to grant us any aid. So tell me this. What the hell are you doing here? You’ve already gave everyone a heart attack, to do what? Watch birds fight?”
“I’m on vacation,” you reply brightly.
He stares at you. “You’re here…on vacation.”
“Yeah, Allen mentioned Earth was an interesting place, if not a bit…behind. My old planet wasn’t too different actually! I mean before we started stripping it for resources. Don’t worry, everyone was already dead,” you continue. “Honestly, it feels nostalgic being here. In more ways than one.”
“For some reason, I don’t believe you and believe you at the same.” The man rubs his face tiredly, but you don’t take it as him letting his guard down. It’s probably a signal for something, you’re guessing.
“I’m being pretty polite, you know. I could have just came here undetected. I’m fast enough and I have the tech for it, but I wanted to meet you,” you admit, still smiling, though you doubted it was comforting. “You’re in a pretty tough position here, friend. Viltrum believes you can help replenish what they lost and the only reason they haven’t is because Earth is continuously racked with…internal issues. And they trusted Nolan, too much, a mistake you guys made too. Your strongest fighter would die to any Viltrumite, including me. Honestly, feels like you guys just have horrible luck. And it’s not going to get any better.”
“So what? The Coalition is going to back us up now? From what I’ve heard you guys haven’t had much luck against the Viltrumites either,” he retorts and you laugh again, throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him against your side. You can feel his tension despite his expression not changing. You doubt he’s ever been manhandled like this. “…awfully friendly, aren’t you?”
You’re being mean. But you have a lot of frustration that you aren’t able to take out against the one that wronged you. So, yes, you’re being a bully right now, making his weak, little heart almost go out, but you’ll make up for it. Someday.
You wonder if Donald is shitting himself right now. “I’ve killed two of them before. Viltrumites, that is.”
“Two?” He sounds unimpressed, but you can tell you only raised your danger level.
“Believe it or not, it was a major loss for them. Painted a target on my head the first time, the second time, they started getting a bit nervous,” you share, “The only way to kill one of us is to be stronger. Plain and simple.”
You’re lying a bit there, but you’re not about to share your weaknesses with him of all people.
“Roundabout way to sell yourself, I thought you were here to…relax,” he says, shifting in your grasp.
“I am, but even off duty, I took an oath to protect, especially when Viltrumites are involved. Don’t think of me as an enemy or something you need to worry about. If they come, I’ll help. And if I’m not fighting whoever they send, and they will send someone, I’ll just be enjoying the sights.” You pat his shoulder before pulling away. “I think we’ll become great friends…sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Cecil.” He’s playing nice, at least. “You can stay, we’ll even fund your…activities. But, the only way you involve yourself in any altercation, you wait for my call. Trust that you’ll be met with immediate consequences if you act out.”
With those final words, he’s gone. You’re amused that he only threatened you after you let go of him. He was definitely placating you the same way you did for your father.
“Some clothes and currency would be nice?” You call out to the sky, aware you’d be monitored during your stay. Voyeurs.
You were definitely going to take advantage of the taxpayers. Sorry, Americans.
*
You let out a sigh of contentment as you emerged from the ocean, heading back to where you left your towel. You’ve seen a lot of beaches over the years, but you never had the chance to actually enjoy any of them. So you figured you’d make sure of a private beach in Australia, uncaring of the actual owners.
Right as you bent down to pick up your towel, you had to dodge an incoming punch from the protagonist himself. Wow, he just got back on Earth and he came to visit you. You’re honoured.
“This isn’t your planet—“ you know he was about to make a speech about how colonization is bad, but he pauses, mouth agape as he takes in your form.
You meet his gaze, tilting your head. Ah, you understand now. In your last life, you weren’t a big fan of revealing outfits, but after interacting with a variety of cultures and species, you were comfortable in your skin, meaning sometimes you liked to wear sexy bikinis that didn’t leave much to the imagination.
“Yes?” You smile.
“Uh, you, uh, I’m not—you’re a Viltrumite!” He barely gets out, obviously going red under his mask.
“You definitely didn’t let Cecil finish before hunting me down, did you? And did he really give you my location before at least saying I’m a friendly Viltrumite like you?” You pout, crossing your arms, already sure Cecil is shouting into his earpiece.
“You—yeah, he’s bringing me up to speed now,” he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re friends with Allen? He didn’t mention you…like at all.”
“Viltrumites aren’t something you can freely talk about,” you reply, “I’m sure you can guess why.”
“Heh, yeah, for sure,” he says awkwardly.
When you don’t say anything, he speaks up again, “You, uh, don’t seem that different from a human. My mom said even my dad took a while to get used to Earth. But you look great— like you’re doing great!”
“Well, compared to the Empire, the Coalition is all about diversity. They made sure I wasn’t an emotionally constipated killer.” You take pity on him and ignore his slip up. A part of you wants to mess with him a bit more, mostly out of envy for him having a human mom and an actual childhood, but that’s twisted even for you. “Did you want to join me?”
Okay, maybe you did have it in you.
“Oh, me? Wow, that’s, wait, no, I have a girlfriend! Oh my god, Amber,” he starts to mumble to himself guiltily. Did he come see you before his girlfriend? You’re flattered, even thought those two are on the brink of a breakup.
“You should get comfortable having me around, Mark.” You mention casually, “Cecil wants me to help whip you into shape. Allen mentioned you were a late bloomer.”
His cheeks flush again much to your glee. “You? But you’re—“
“Doubting me, are you?” In an instant, you’re behind him, kicking his knee in, so he stumbles before whipping around to face you.
Oddly enough rather than offence, he’s giving you the same stupid look as earlier. You look done and let out an ‘ah’. You turn around, arm covering your now bare chest. You weren’t that secure.
“Can you pass me my top?”
In a flash, he’s holding up the piece of fabric, his other hand covering his goggles. For that act of kindness, you pretend not to notice how affected he is by the sight of your tits. Honestly, he’s acting like he’s a virgin, which you know he is not!
*
You’re having the most fun you’ve had in a while, or maybe even the most fun you’ve had in this life.
You get to laze around, eat good food, beat the shit out of Mark for ‘training purposes’. Going on vacation really was the best, especially since you were basically waiting to get drafted to fight in a war. Right now, the best thing to do is nothing.
“You don’t pull punches, do you?” Mark hovers above where you’re perched on a cliffside, watching the sunset after hours of tossing him around.
“That’s what makes me so good at my job,” you grin up at him. Surprisingly, he smiles back at you. You guess being associated with Allen is like a ‘get-out-of-jail’ card here. Well, for now.
“You sure about that? You just smack me around and yell ‘dodge this’,” he teases. “By the way, you’re supposed to warn me before you hit me, not after!”
“I’m Pavlov-ing you. In a good way,” you clarify.
“I don’t thinking saying it’s the ‘good way’ actually makes it good.”
“Hmm, yeah, I guess you’re—dodge this!”
*
“He smells like grape juice,” you breathe, hugging the purple toddler to your chest.
“He doesn’t smell like grape juice just because he’s purple,” Mark retorts, crossing his arms as he watches you nuzzle your face into Oliver’s hair. “I don’t get why you wanted to see him.”
“He’s another halfie, we’re like a super minority right now,” you explain, “And I didn’t really see too many kids growing up.”
“How old are you?” Mark asks suddenly before backtracking, “Oh, wait is that rude to ask? I don’t mean it in a bad way, just curious if, uh, I’ll shut up now.”
“Worried I’m as old as your mom?” You ask. “No, I only recently entered adulthood like you.”
“Cool, cool, cool.” Mark nods, attempting to appear casual. “So, uh, me and Amber broke up.”
That’s earlier than you thought it would happen.
“Why?”
“I’m going to drop out of Upstate, I barely have enough time with the super hero gig and training, as is, forget about actually being able to be there for her. It wasn’t fair to her,” Mark admits. “It felt like we were holding onto something that doesn’t exist anymore.”
“You did sound like a bad partner,” you hum and he shoots you a betrayed look. “But, life isn’t so simple for you. You’ll find your peace eventually, Mark.”
You’ve seen it, after all.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” He rubs his neck sheepishly. It’s a cute habit, you hope it’s one he keeps even if it seems unlikely.
*
“—are you okay?” Mark appears in your vision, bloodied and bruised. “You…scared her off? Uh, asserted your dominance?”
“I’m not a dog,” you grumble, lifting yourself from the sand, as he collapses to sit beside you. “But, yeah, Anissa, was it? Older than us, way older. Any further confrontation between us would have led to more serious injury, so she cut her losses and left. Wish I could have bashed her head in permanently, but there’s always next time. If she was just a little slower…”
“You guys were faster than I thought was possible,” he shakes his head ruefully.
“Experience does count for something. At least, you’re good at taking a beating,” you console.
“Yeah, that definitely makes me feel better.”
“That’s what I’m here for; pina coladas and emotional support,” you grin mockingly before your face falls back into neutral dissatisfaction.
Mark pats your arm, “You’ll get her next time.”
*
“Wow, you really suck at this,” Oliver remarks, watching your character die for the nth time, the two of you sitting on the floor, engaged in the most broken game of all time. You'd rather play a RPG.
“Why do you even like playing shooters? Bullets are literally the most useless thing in space,” you mumble, tossing your controller away.
“Why do you keep playing with my brother when I’m the one that invited you over?” Mark wonders, slumped on the couch behind you.
“She just likes me better,” Oliver brags. “How long are you here for anyway? You said you were just on leave.”
“I’ve literally never taken any day offs, so like ten years, I guess. Or whenever they’re planning to take out the remaining Viltrumites,” you shrug, prompting Oliver to starting ranting about how he’s going to get the most takedowns.
“What are you going to do when it’s over? When there’s no threat?” Mark asks suddenly.
“What? Like, universal peace? I guess the same thing I’m doing right now,” you answer, unsure why he looks so pleased. Dork.
“Then I guess I’ll have to get to work,” he says as if he could just achieve it like that. Well, he would, but doesn’t know that.
“Maybe win a fight first.”
“Ohhhh!”
“Shut up, Oliver.”
*
Shit was going down. It was the average Ao3 user’s wet dream. Dozens of morally dubious Marks fucking everything up.
And, you were having your (Y/N) moment. And letting out some steam through violence. You can only blame your genetics.
“I’m gonna be real with you, babe, this is the most fun I’ve ever had,” a variant wearing a mask without lenses, revealing stupid Bambi eyes, admits, nose bleeding, staining his teeth red when he smiles.
“Aw, you’re going to make me blush,” you giggle after bringing a knee to his face.
“No, really! I thought the only kinda cool thing I could do was kill the Guardians again, but that was a bust! When you tackled me into a mountain, I think I got, like, a gratitude boner or something!” He exclaims, what a manic sweetheart he is. And he should be grateful, you saved him from having to survive the horrors alongside Darkwing Jr.
“Wow, you’re actually being serious about the boner thing,” you comment, doing your best to look into his eyes, and not at his—
“What can I say? You just do it for me, baby, maybe it’s your penchant for punching the shit out of me. Or maybe it’s those pretty legs of yours,” he admits shamelessly, “Actually, do you own any fishnet—“
You punch him into the ground and watch him bounce, but he only lifts his head to look at you like a lovesick puppy. “Marry me?
Okay, that’s enough. The sadomasochism thing was mostly a joke. He can get cannibalized. You’re pretty sure Rex is about to sacrifice himself and take that as an excuse to dip.
*
The day you’ve been dreading. Conquest’s arrival, and you do not want to stand ready for it.
People (and dogs) are going to die. Mark and Eve are going to get mutilated. And you don’t think you can live with that happening on your watch.
So when Cecil calls you for backup, you don’t ignore him. You cry a little, but you go.
When you see him about to tear Oliver in half, you dive down from the sky, landing a kick against his back, forcing him to drop Oliver, you’re barely able to catch him, watching Conquest land a couple feet away.
“That’s enough,” you declare, gently setting the boy down for retrieval, trusting Cecil to take care of him, and approach your father.
“It looks like you’ve improved at hide and seek, it’s been months since I’ve seen you, and you’re here? Your softness…I can only take responsibility for it,” he tells you, quiet compared to the devastation around you. His hand cradles your cheek when you’re close enough, gentler than he’s ever been with you. You raise an eyebrow at the absurdity. Did he miss you that much?
“That’s right, it’s your fault. You could have taken me in at any time, let me be molded into a ‘true Viltrumite’, but you didn’t. Why? All that loyalty to them but you falter now? I don’t understand,” you admit. “Families don’t exist for our people. You want me to be strong, but not enough that I be trained like the rest of you.”
“You were the only one to ever smile at me,” he states simply.
You really hated when you felt bad for him.
Your little moment is interrupted when you hear Mark shout.
“Get away from her!” You raise a hand, stopping his charge as he stares at you in confusion.
“Father, what are you doing? I thought maybe you wanted me to be the one to kill you, but it’s that not that,” you exhale steadily before continuing, “The day you didn’t kill me or take me, you became a traitor. You don’t care about the Empire, clearly, and based on the way you keep following me around like a sad, old dog, there’s more to you than just wanting to fight. What do you want?”
“I want you to live as you always have, without the influence of anyone but myself,” he says. “That way, you can still bear to look at me. That matters more than anything else. Treachery or even destroying this planet, it doesn't matter what I do, so you must remain as yourself.”
That’s almost sweet.
“I came here to drench myself in blood, but now, I will crush this planet against my heel, even if it’s against the Empire’s wishes, for attaching itself to you like a parasite, wasting away your potential and time,” he vows. “I will liberate you from this weakness.”
What?
“What!?” Mark, who was previously stuck in a shellshocked state, shouts.
Your father turns back to Mark, glee gone from his face, replaced with a look of loathing. Before he can move, you wrap your arms around him, feeling him stiffen in shock, as he stares down at you.
“Father! Dad! Dad, you’re right, I’ve gotten attached to this place, for better or worse. Maybe that makes me weak. But, I’m okay with that,” you nervously ramble, clutching onto the man like a lifeline, even thought you have to resist the urge to start shaking. You need to come up with something quick. “The truth is…that I want to start a life here. On a planet where blood and bonds ties us together, where families are forged. Because I’m…”
You silently apologize to Mark.
“I’m with child. Nolan’s son is the father,” you lie, looking your father in the eye. “Here, parents raise their child. They spend every day with them. And…and grandparents are very involved! They just pop up and spoil their grandkids…and that’s totally something I want.”
“A child?” Your father brokenly gasps, looking back at Oliver’s battered form.
“No, that’s not—obviously not! I meant, in my womb, dad!” You yell, pulling away.
He stares at your stomach like you have a bomb strapped to you. He stumbles back before flying away, concrete breaking under the impact. You wonder if canon even matters anymore.
You’ve saved thousands, but at what cost?
Mark finally regains the ability to speak, “We’re pregnant!?”
“I lie when I'm scared, Mark! You should know that!”
*
When you exit the washroom after a very long shower, you’re not surprised to find Mark in your hotel suite, awkward lounging on your bed, staring a bit too long at your fluffy bathrobe for it to be an admiring gaze.
“How was Rex’s going away party?” You ask, sitting next to him, crossing your bare legs.
“Great, I’m happy for him. They missed you, actually. Rex wanted to thank you for taking down that variant,” he smiles, and you take note that most of his injuries have already healed. You stopped the worst of it. “Rae too, looks like they’re a thing now. Didn’t see that coming.”
You hum, an urge to bully him hitting you. You turn to face him, “Do you want to have sex?”
“S-shouldn’t I buy you dinner or take you to a movie first?” He blurts out.
“You wanna take me out?” You ask.
“Yes, of course, I think we’re doing things a little…out of order?” He says. “I mean, sex is also, hmn, good. Really good.
“I was just thinking you should put a baby in me before Conquest comes back,” you explain casually. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. I figured we might as well go along with it.”
He chokes, and you bite back a smile.
He’s too easy.
“You don’t have to. It’s a better alternative than fighting him, but we can figure it out,” you continue, “Maybe we could—“
You’re cut off when he presses his lips against yours, hands cradling the back of your head. Any noise you make is swallowed by him. He pulls away, nose brushing against yours.
“Let’s do it,” he declares.
“Uh, I think your line is supposed to be ‘that’s crazy’ or ‘how can we have a baby’,” you reply, face feeling hot at his sudden boldness.
“I mean, it’s like you said, it’s the best alternative. I’d rather have Grandpa Conquest showing up than the bloodthirsty version,” he says, hand already moving to untie your robe.
“Dude, no way do you want a baby,” you blanch. Is this a game of chicken? Are you losing said game of chicken?
“We can at least try,” he says dragging you further up the bed. “And we can figure out the money thing. I wouldn't let the mother of my child go hungry."
“Well, uh, I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to try,” you bite your lip before he pushes you down by the shoulders, climbing atop you, pressing his mouth against your neck.
“We’re doing this for Earth,” he mumbles in between his sucking and biting.
“For peace,” you agree, a little breathless.
This was either going to cause Cecil a stroke or be some good wank material.
*
“I think I might be a little obsessed with you,” he admits from in between your thighs, face drenched.
Join the club, you think delirious.
Mc’s mom looking up from hell to see Conquest doing the same thing he shamed her for; loving their daughter: I’m going to rip his dick off
*
Mc:
Thaedus: what have you done
*
Cecil, after meeting mc: mass suicide?
*
Mc, bullying Cecil because she can’t kill her dad: damn I need therapy
Mc: I’m going to physically intimidate that old man again.
*
Mc, sobbing after hearing someone sing ‘happy birthday’:
Mark, the ‘someone’: I’m…sorry??
*
Mark: so you’re not pregnant 😔
Oliver, lying a couple feet away, bleeding out: can you do this shit somewhere else
*
Mark: why is that variant still here…and why is he holding roses
Mc: should we keep him as a dog or something
Mark: no??
*
GDA admins, after basically creating a sex tape: delete…or save🤭
*
Conquest: where is the womb??? Where is my grandchild being held!?
I feel like whenever I come up with a title before I actually write a fic, I end up changing everything and doing a rewrite, which is what happened here…I decided to make mc apart of the coalition rather than the empire, creating a more estranged relationship, the only way love could form since it would impossible if mc was raised the Viltrumite way…anyone still around from when I made the original poll? I prefer this version more since there’s more freedom to write the mcs personality when they’re not part of a regime
Anyway even the style of the fic changed from being manwha adjacent to becoming a mix of Gintama/adult swin humour lol
But yay over 6.6k words ughh lemme know about any errors, I’m so bad at editing
Robert Robertson x Dilf himbo apartment neighbor. A divorced dad that has the sweetest daughter. A man that always accidentally makes to much food and he gives Robert a good size portion. A man that loves dogs so much that seeing beef send a him into cuteness overload. Someone that genuinely worries for Robert’s, that when he thought he heard somebody tried to break into Robert‘s apartment he came out of his own in his boxers with a baseball bat ready.
I'm a what? A himbo.
Robert Robertson x dilf male reader
⚠︎You didn't specify if you want smut, so it's smutless⚠︎
☢︎︎minors and girls do not interact☢︎︎
☞︎︎︎Robert might be in love with his himbo dilf neighbour.☜︎︎︎
✍︎ 1077
Robert might be in love with his neighbour.
Which neighbour?
The one who lives right in front of him. The one who's a 40-year-old divorced dad who has a five-year-old daughter.
The one who always seems to care for him.
Y/n y/l/n.
How much Robert needed him. Non-sexually and sexually.
He needed him non-sexually because if it weren't for y/n, he'd probably starve to death. Y/n always cooks more than he and his daughter can eat in a week. So he always gives a big portion of that food to Robert.
Honestly, the dispatcher is shocked he hadn't gained weight. But if he keeps eating his neighbour's food and working out, then he'll be back to his former form that he had before his coma sooner than he'd expect.
He needs him sexually because that man is so fucking dumb sometimes, it makes Robert want to fuck all the remaining brains out of him.
But he keeps it in his pants. He wants to actually win the himbo dilf instead of taking advantage of him.
Today he was taking Beef out for a walk. The dog was already excitedly waiting by the door.
"Where is your leash?" Robert asked as he looked around the apartment.
The dog only mindlessly stared at him. Not a thought behind those dough eyes.
Robert continued to look around his apartment. Even his backup leash was nowhere to be found.
That's when there came a knock on the front door.
Robert opened the door, to his surprise, his friendly neighbour y/n was standing there.
"Robert! Good thing you're home, I found these." Y/n said with a smile as he handed over the two leashes that the dispatcher was looking for. He was deeply confused as he accepted the leashes.
"One was at the parking lot, must've fallen out of your pocket or something. While this one you left on the chairs by the entrance." Y/n explained.
"Oh wow, where has my mind been?" Robet laughed as he looked over his neighbour. He admired the way he was grinning from ear to ear. How does y/n manage to always be so bright?
"I was gonna ask the same thing." Y/n laughed. Suddenly, the beefy chihuahua forced his way through between Robert's legs.
Y/n's eyes immediately lit up. He crouched down and reached for the dog. "Hello, beefy, how is my favorite good boy?" Queue in the baby talk.
Robert chuckled and walked back inside his apartment to gather the rest of his stuff as he let his favorite neighbour coo his dog.
Beef was wagging his tail like it was running in a marathon. He licked at y/n's hands or face, wherever he was allowed to, as he enjoyed the neighbour's pats and baby talk.
When Robert came back, he closed his door and knelt down to put the leash on his dog.
"Bye, beefy, be a good boy," Y/n said with a smile as he stood up so they could go. "Enjoy your walk, Bobby," Y/n said with a smile before he disappeared into his apartment.
Robert stole a glance at Y/n's ass before he disappeared into his apartment.
During the walk, the dispatcher couldn't think about anything else but y/n. With every interaction he has with the man, he falls in love with him more and more.
It's so embarrassing. How can he fall in love with his neighbor, who's a single father? Hell, y/n probably doesn't even want him. Y/n probably wants a woman so his daughter can have a strong mother figure in her life. Not a second father.
With all this overthinking, Robert hadn't realised how long they've been out.
"Shit.. Beef, come on, let's go home. It's late." Robert hurried his dog towards him so he could lift him and put him inside his jacket. He zipped the jacket, so Beef was snugly pressed against him, but also had his head out.
"What a long walk that was, huh?" He talked to his dog as he took the faster way to go home. It was indeed a long walk. They left at five, and now it's almost half past eight.
Beef yawned and rested his head on Robert's chest. His chubby body must feel tired after that walk.
When they arrived, Robert struggled to unlock his door. He cursed quietly under his breath as he forced his eyes to focus on the keyhole. When did he get so tired? He set Beef down so he could look at his keys. For some reason, he thinks he took the wrong ones.
He tried again. At this point, he was causing so much noise it sounded as if someone was trying to picklock hsi door. And that's what his lovely neighbour thought.
"Hey!" That call made Robert jump. He spun around in panic just to find his y/n standing there in just his underwear and a raised baseballbat. He looks like he was asleep.
"Y/n!" Robert practically squealed. "What are you doing?!"
"Robert?" Y/n frowned and squinted his eyes. He lowered his bat and rubbed the tiredness from his face. "I'm sorry, I thought someone was breaking into your apartment." He explained.
God damn it, y/n. Why are you so precious? Robert thought to himself as he shamelessly stared at his almost naked neighbour.
His body acted on its own. Before he knew it, his lips crashed against y/n's. "You're such a Himbo." He breathed out. His hands were on y/n's cheeks, and their lips were millimeters away.
"A what?" Y/n was standing there awkwardly, breathless from the kiss, but he didn't pull away.
Robet had to fight the urge to groan. Of course, y/n didn't know what a himbo is. "You're a Himbo." He repeated. Before y/n could question it again, the dispatcher pulled him into another kiss.
This time, y/n responded and grabbed Robert's hips. "Is that a good thing?" He asked when they broke the kiss for air.
The dispatcher chuckled and rested his forehead against y/n's. "Sure."
"Papa..." Y/n's daughter called from the door tiredly. Y/n smiled and kissed Robert's forehead before pulling away. "Good night, Robert. I'll talk to you tomorrow." He said with a smile before he walked back to his apartment. "I'm here, sweetheart." He cooed to his daughter as he closed the door.
Robert stood there and stared at y/n's door. He licked his lips. He's a little nervous about tomorrow's talk, but whatever it is, he's making that man his.
Hi I was wondering if I could request sonar x male reader where sonar accidentally chirps and does little bat mating calls around reader and reader obviously doesn’t know what it means and he tends to repeat funny noises he likes and accidentally ends up copying sonars courting chirp to well and it flusters sonar x33 btw I love your writing so much pls ignore if you don’t like the idea 🫶🫶
I LOVE THIS ASK SO MUCH I LOVE MY SILLY MAN BAT SO MUCH UGHHAHAHHABS IM GONNA SOB. Also I love how reader was sort of ragebaiting sonar bc who wouldn’t lmao
Sonar and male!reader who mimics his mating call..
Sonar swore he had everything under control.
Because there was no way his stupid bat-coded instincts were gonna start acting up around you of all people. You. The guy who made terrible puns. The guy who could lift him with one arm and then blush like he didn’t mean to. The guy who once barked at the bad guys in the middle of a mission just because you wanted to throw them off. “Never let ‘em know your next move.” You said and sprinted off after them.
Yeah. No way. Except…he started chirping. Accidentally.
It slipped out one day when you walked into the training room. Just one tiny, soft little sound—high-pitched, quick, way too cute to be legal. He clamped his mouth shut so fast he almost bit his tongue. You blinked. “What was that?” He gulped. Loudly. “Nothing.” He sounded guilty. Immediately suspicious.
You stepped closer. Sonar stepped back. Like you were dangerous. Like you were holding kryptonite instead of a protein bar. Then you did the absolute worst thing in the world. You repeated the noise. Perfectly. Like a little echo. Like you heard it, thought “funny sound,” and decided to mimic it with your whole chest. Sonar literally stumbled. “DON’T DO THAT.” You tilted your head. “Why? It was cute.”
Cute.
Cute.
Cute??
Sonar’s brain short-circuited so violently he swore he smelled smoke. “It’s— it’s not— it’s not a cute sound, dude, it’s— it’s a— just don’t do it!” You, being you, obviously did it again. Even better than the first time. Crisp. Sharp. Like you were trying out a new ringtone. And Sonar made a noise this time. A real one. A sound that came from somewhere embarrassingly deep in his chest, half-click, half-purr, and very much the kind of thing bats only make when they are either A. about to fight or B. wildly down bad.
You jumped. “Sonar?? Was that…like…a growl? Or a chirp? Or— should I be concerned—” He slapped a hand over your mouth. “Stop. Talking. Please.” Your eyes went wide. His hand trembled. His heartbeat was stupid loud. You could feel it against your lips.
He pulled his hand away slowly, face red enough to ignite a forest. “Okay, listen. I need you to stop copying stuff I do.” “Why? You always make funny noises. I just like—” He slaps his hands over his face to hide the embarrassment “Those are NOT funny noises.” His voice cracked on the “not.” “They’re…instinct things.” This confused you “…instinct things?” “YES. Courting.” He groaned. He wished the ground would swallow him whole. “They’re courting noises.”
That made you pause. And you stared.
Then stared harder.
Then pointed at him. “Wait—YOU WERE COURTING ME?!” He snaps his head towards you “I WAS NOT DOING IT ON PURPOSE,” Sonar groaned. “It’s a reflex. I can’t control it.” You grinned like a man possessed. “So you flirted with me in bat language.” “I DIDN’T— stop— shut up— stop smiling like that—” You made the noise again. The same perfect little chirp. Sonar practically whined, whole body curling like he’d been tasered. “Dude. I’m not kidding. If you keep doing that I’m gonna— like— I don’t know— imprint on you or something.”
“Imprint?” you teased. “Like in Twilight? Like a werewolf?” “LIKE A BAT,” he snapped “That’s even funnier.” You teased. “Shut up!”
You stepped close, chest brushing his, eyes dancing. “Are you telling me I’ve been flirting with you in your native tongue without knowing it?” Sonar looked anywhere but your face. “Yeah. Basically.” “And that it worked?” He groaned again— loud, dramatic, adorable. “I hate you.” He lets out another chirp, “You’re chirping again.” “I know.”
You kissed his cheek and he instantly made a noise no human throat should’ve been capable of. You grinned. “Hey, Sonar?”“What.” You chirped—soft, slow, purposeful this time. And Sonar just…melted.
hope you all got your beloved ones some demonic nice flowers (if they're not allergic!) or treated them with homemade sweets (coco cacao brownies are good, i heard)
why not celebrate this day with a nice v-day fic!
💕wanna be with you everywhere💕
by moonyinpisces, aglaophonos with art from p_lumbum aka me!
Summary: You join the RDA young after the world figures out your ability to shapeshift. They offer you a new life- so why does everything feel wrong?
Warning(s): Mention of pain and discomfort when shapeshifting, the RDA
Note(s): So, I saw Avatar: Fire and Ash, and wanted to at least write a little something set in that universe. This section of the story happens before the events of the movie, so there is no spoilers in this one! Sorry that this isn't beta read. Part Two here!
You join the RDA because they make it sound like the only place you’ll ever be safe.
They find you young- young enough that the world hasn’t finished deciding what to do with someone whose body refuses to stay singular. Your ability to shift shape is treated like a miracle in press releases and like a liability in private. Governments argue over jurisdiction. Scientists argue over ownership. The RDA steps in with contracts already written, hands already extended, voices smooth and confident.
We know how to use your gifts. We can protect you. Pandora needs people like you.
You're young enough that fear still sounds like reason when it wears a calm voice and a tailored suit. Young enough to mistake a leash for a lifeline.
Afterwards, they show you carefully curated footage: Na’vi warriors painted in blood-red war stripes, arrows piercing armor, humans dragged screaming into the trees. They speak of Pandora as if it is a mouth full of teeth- hostile atmosphere, lethal fauna, a planet that wants you dead. They say savage like it’s a diagnosis.
“This is why we need people like you,” someone says gently. “People who can survive where others can’t.”
They frame it as responsibility. As prevention. As protection. They tell you that without the RDA, more people will die- scientists, workers, families who just want a future off a dying Earth. They tell you the Na’vi don’t understand progress, that they won’t negotiate, that they answer every attempt at peace with violence.
By the time they ask if you’re willing to help, the room feels smaller. The choice feels narrower. Outside these walls are governments arguing, crowds speculating, strangers who would love to decide what you deserve.
You nod before you realize you’re doing it.
You skip entire layers of training because your body can already do what machines struggle to replicate. Where others learn procedures, you are the procedure. You’re sent ahead of survey teams, ahead of engineers, ahead of anyone whose life costs more to replace. You walk into environments that would shred unmodified lungs. You stand in atmospheres that make others choke and panic. You adapt, cell by cell, instinctively, efficiently.
They assign you handlers.
Not friends- handlers. People who know your resting heart rate better than your favorite color. People who smile while watching your vitals scroll across transparent screens, fingers hovering over emergency overrides they’re always a little too ready to use. Doctors who talk about you while you’re still in the room, using third-person pronouns like you’re furniture that might break if handled wrong.
“Stability looks good today,” one of them says while you’re still shaking from a shift.
“Let’s see how far we can push it next time,” another replies.
They don’t say human when they look at you. Not really. They say asset. Adaptive. Exceptional. Your ability to alter your body, to rewrite bone and skin and organ density, is something they can catalog and deploy. You become a collection of graphs and projected tolerances. A list of acceptable losses.
They house you in white rooms with glass walls- clean, sterile, impossible to hide in. People watch you constantly, smiling without warmth, offering praise that never quite reaches their eyes. You’re commended in reports and quietly avoided in hallways. Conversations stop when you enter. Someone always finds an excuse to leave.
You learn quickly which version of yourself makes them most comfortable. Smaller changes. Cleaner ones. Nothing that reminds them you can become something they can’t predict.
Years pass like this. Not marked by birthdays or milestones, but by evaluations and clearance upgrades. You grow taller. Stronger. More precise. You learn how to hold a form longer, how to suppress the tremor in your hands afterward, how to smile when someone congratulates you on a successful test that nearly killed you.
That’s what the briefing says, over and over, in clipped sentences that echo long after the screens go dark. But the first time you see it- really see it, not through filtered feeds or drone cams- you feel something loosen in your chest, a tension you didn’t even realize you’d been carrying for years.
They release you into a controlled zone: a section of forest fenced with invisible containment fields, watched by drones that hum softly overhead like mechanical insects. The air is still toxic by human standards, but survivable for you. It slides into your lungs rich and damp, thick with scents that your old training has no names for. The ground beneath your feet gives subtly, alive and faintly warm, as though it recognizes the weight you carry and chooses not to resist it.
Light pours down through leaves larger than any sail you’ve seen, filtering through in fractured rays that scatter gold, green, and emerald in impossible patterns. Every shade feels alive, shimmering as though the canopy itself is breathing. Bioluminescent fungi pulse softly along roots and tree bases, reacting to your movement, glowing brighter as if startled into life by your presence. Air is heavy with the smell of sweet sap and rain-soaked earth, layered with something floral, electric, a scent that clings to your skin and curls deep into your lungs. It doesn’t just fill your senses- it anchors you.
You slow without meaning to, each step hesitant, reverent. You almost forget the RDA, the cameras, the commands. Even the warnings fade, leaving only the forest and its quiet, deliberate rhythms.
A small creature darts across your path, limbs spindly and iridescent, skin shimmering in impossible colors. It pauses, regards you briefly with eyes that feel aware, and vanishes into the underbrush without fear, without hesitation. A cluster of glowing insects rises from the moss like liquid fire, hovering, weaving in tight spirals, then scattering silently like sparks from an unseen flame.
Vines curl and uncurl lazily along the trunks of trees, not threatening, just alive. When you place a hand against the bark, you feel a faint vibration beneath your palm, a rhythm that reminds you unsettlingly of a heartbeat.
Your comm crackles.
“Vitals are clean,” someone says. “Asset appears stable. Proceed.”
You don’t want to.
For the first time since joining the RDA, you feel something loosen inside your chest. The planet isn’t hostile- it’s aware. Watching, yes. Measuring you the way you were taught to measure it. But not with hatred. The world breathes. The forest hums. Everything is connected in a way Earth forgot how to be.
This is when doubt takes root.
If this place is savage, why does it cradle life so carefully?
If the Na’vi are monsters, why does the land itself feel… gentle?
You feel a tug, faint at first, then stronger, pulling you forward, deeper into the forest, as if the planet itself is curious about you.
The deeper you go, the more the magic of it reveals itself. Seed pods, small as teardrops, float through the air, drifting slowly as if suspended in water. When they brush past, they release tiny clouds of light, glimmering like dust made of stars. You step near a shallow pool, and the water reflects not just your image, but faint trails of bioluminescence winding through the roots beneath. Tiny creatures swim in it, transparent, their bodies pulsing with soft neon, leaving streaks of light as they move.
Even the air moves with a purpose here. Breezes curve around your face like caresses, carrying scents that make your lungs ache with longing. Every step releases a whisper of life from the forest: leaves shifting, vines twisting, insects skimming the ground in quick flashes of luminescence. The forest doesn’t just exist- it sings, a song too intricate and layered for your ears to fully catch, but somehow impossible to ignore.
You try to describe it later, in the sterile white rooms of the RDA, but words fail you. They hear only “complex,” “reactive,” “ecology”- terms too clinical to capture the shimmer of light on leaves, the tiny sparks of color dancing in pools of water, the pulse of life beneath your hand.
“Don’t anthropomorphize,” a handler warns. “Pandora is dangerous. You just haven’t seen it yet."
Later, as you wade through bioluminescent marshes while analysts murmur excitedly in your ear about data returns, you start to notice what the RDA doesn’t log.
Bulldozers carving through the forest without pause for nesting grounds. Biologists who protest vanishing from assignments. Words like containment mutating quietly into elimination on spreadsheets no one talks about aloud.
You hear it before you see it- not gunfire, not the mechanical hum of drones- but the quiet rhythm of planning.
Late-night briefings you’re not supposed to attend, doors left half-open because no one thinks the freak will understand the numbers. Atmospheric processors scaled beyond “research.” You watch maps light up with projected blast zones that don’t care about villages, only about yield.
Hunting units shift from defense to retrieval. And one name keeps surfacing, spoken with irritation, obsession, almost a hiss:
Sully.
Circled. Annotated. Spat like a curse.
Jake Sully and his family aren’t just enemies. They’re obstacles. Symbols. Proof that Pandora can’t be tamed while they’re alive.
They speak of final pushes, decisive measures. They speak of fire, of scorched earth, of burning Pandora until nothing remains to resist.
You watch a recording where someone laughs while replaying footage of a burning stretch of forest. A scientist flinches but says nothing, you can only watch as command signs off anyway.
One night, you overhear a strategist mutter, almost conversationally, “If we burn enough forest, they’ll come to us.”
A few people laugh.
You stop sleeping after that. The forest haunts your dreams even when you aren’t on Pandora- the heat of the fires, the screams of animals you never see, the laughter that feels like knives in the dark.
They start pushing your abilities harder. Asking if you can approximate indigenous physiology. If you can blend. If you can infiltrate. The way they look at you changes- less amusement, more hunger.
That’s when the word freak finally slips out.
Not shouted. Not angry. Just casual.
“Careful,” a tech mutters when you pass, “thing like that could turn on us.”
Thing.
Something cold settles into you then, slow and absolute. You understand, all at once, that no matter how useful you make yourself, you will never be included, only deployed. You aren’t a person here. You’re a contingency. A failsafe. A leash they haven’t figured out how to tighten yet.
That night, you don’t wait for permission.
You don’t pack. You don’t plan. Planning assumes time, and time is something the RDA only ever gives you until it decides to take it back.
You choose a body the RDA fears and covets in equal measure. You easily pull the image from memory: blue skin under bioluminescent light, height and grace and strength not born of machinery. A body that belongs here.
Your body answers before your mind can hesitate.
The first sound is bone.
They stretch with a sound like ice cracking under pressure. Pain spikes- sharp, electric- as your spine lengthens, vertebrae re-spacing themselves with brutal precision. You bite down on your sleeve to keep from screaming as your ribcage expands, lungs reshaping to drink deeper air. Your heart stutters, then resumes with a heavier, slower beat.
Your hands convulse. Fingers lengthen, joints re-aligning, nails thickening into something harder. Your skin burns- burns- as pigment floods outward, human tones drowning beneath blue, faint stripes surfacing like memories you never lived.
A tail forces its way into existence at the base of your spine and you sob despite yourself, because nothing has ever hurt like this and nothing has ever felt more right.
Your face is last, cruel in its patience.
Your jaw reshapes with a sickening pull. Your nose flattens, cartilage folding inward. Your eyes widen, darkening, pulling in light until the room seems suddenly brighter, sharper, unbearably detailed. When your ears crawl upward along your skull and taper to points, you nearly black out.
When it’s over, you lie there shaking, too large for the cot, breath dragging in slow, powerful pulls you don’t know how to control yet. The room smells different now. Everything does. Metal. Fear.
Your fear.
You catch your reflection in the steel wall.
A Na’vi stares back.
Not perfect. Not born. Something about the posture is wrong, the stillness too practiced- but close enough. Close enough to vanish into the forest. Close enough to survive.
By the time the alarms realize something is wrong, you’re already in the forest, feet sinking into living soil, the network of Pandora thrumming beneath you like a heartbeat answering your own.
When you burst from the controlled zone, the RDA is already regrouping at the edge of the forest. They shout orders, curse your name, curse the trees- but their bullets are useless here. Pandora itself seems to fold around you, carrying you further into its depths, hiding you in plain sight.
Hours stretch into days.
You no longer measure time by hours or meals, as you once did in the white rooms. You mark it by the life around you: blooms unfurling in colors you’ve never seen, petals glowing faintly under Pandora’s filtered light; insects that glitter like liquid gemstones, wings flickering with iridescence as they dart between leaves; birds tracing arcs of faint light across the canopy, feathers reflecting bioluminescent patterns even in daylight. Every step, every breath, reminds you that the planet is alive- and that it wants more than extraction. It wants preservation.
Your body aches. Muscles tremble with exhaustion. Lungs burn against air still thick with unfamiliar gases. But you keep moving, because stopping isn’t safe, and because the forest is teaching you, whether you notice or not.
You watch the animals.
A small herd moves through a clearing- slender-legged, striped in shifting blues and greens, heads bobbing as they sniff the ground and nuzzle plants. Their antenna-like whiskers probe the soil, sniffing, tasting, and nudging one another as they graze on thick, spongy moss and low shrubs. They drink from a clear, shallow stream with slow, deliberate sips, eyes constantly flicking for danger. You mimic them, kneeling to sip from the same pool, letting the cool water wash the dryness from your throat. You bite at leaves, nibble fruits your human instincts would have ignored, and find your stomach forgiving.
Nearby, a larger creature lopes cautiously through the underbrush, six legs moving with smooth, deliberate rhythm. It grazes on thick ferns and low shrubs, alert to every movement and sound. You copy its careful steps, testing plants, finding solid ground, learning without knowing the names of anything you touch or taste.
You move lightly over soft moss, climb with careful precision, stepping where no trace remains. Nights are spent tucked in bioluminescent groves, fungi glowing faintly beneath you, seeds drifting like lanterns above, casting the world in quiet, shifting color. Sleep comes in fragments, but even in dreams the forest pulses beneath your skin, a constant, gentle thrum.
A few more days pass, and you begin to realize that berries, leaves, and whatever edible roots you can find won’t be enough. Your body- long, strong, shaped for speed and endurance- demands more. You feel the hollow ache in your stomach and the way your muscles twitch with need.
That afternoon you watch a predator slip silently through a stream, its body low, eyes scanning the water. With a sudden lunge, it strikes, claws plunging into the shallow flow, lifting a wriggling fish with precision. It doesn’t waste a second. Teeth clamp down, and the fish disappears in a flash.
Something clicks inside you.
Hunger strips everything down to what matters. It sharpens your thoughts in a way the sterile RDA rooms never could, cuts through training manuals and protocols until only instinct remains. You sink into a crouch at the water’s edge and watch, really watch.
The predator doesn’t rush. Its limbs brace against slick stone, weight distributed with careful precision. It waits, motionless, letting the water settle, letting the fish forget it is there. When it strikes, it isn’t strength that wins- it’s timing. Rhythm. A patience so complete it feels like part of the river itself.
You feel your body mirror the lesson before your mind names it.
Your fingers sink into the cool current, tail twitching for balance. You mimic the predator, diving your hand toward a darting fish, fingertips brushing scales, heart hammering. The fish slips. You try again. And again. The forest hums around you, water splashing over stones, insects flickering along the banks, sun filtering through towering leaves.
The water ripples around your hands, darting fish slipping through like quicksilver. No matter how carefully you move, no matter how patient you are, your fingers are too soft, too human and too Na'vi in equal measure. Hunger gnaws at you. You can’t wait.
You flex your hands, and instinct takes over. Nails thicken and sharpen, lengthening into curved claws, hard and precise. The transformation is subtle but powerful; muscle and bone shift to support the new form. The cool water presses against your claws, and suddenly, you are no longer merely trying- you are predatory, efficient, alive in a way you haven’t felt since leaving the RDA.
You dive your claws into the stream, and with a swift, practiced motion, you pin a wriggling fish against a submerged rock. There’s a dull thunk as you deliver the final blow, the fish still under your grip. Cold and slick in your hands, it’s the first kill you’ve taken in this body, in this new life.
"Thank you." you murmur softly.
You gather dry twigs, small sticks stripped from the low branches, leaves that crumble to dust between your fingers. You strike stones together, a sharp clang against another, sparks spitting briefly into the air. Your heart pounds. Sparks fall uselessly onto damp moss. You try again, rubbing sticks, grinding them together with raw strength, but nothing catches. But Pandora is not a kitchen. The forest has no patience for convenience.
The fish is lying there, cold and unyielding. Hunger twists in your gut, muscles trembling from exertion, lungs still burning from long days of running. You can’t wait. Fire isn’t coming.
You bite. Scales scrape against your teeth, fins crack under your jaw. The flesh is cold and slick, metallic on your tongue, sharp with the taste of water and living stone. Your stomach tightens in protest, a reflex from a body that remembers sterilized meals and approved rations. Then it eases.
Every bite is messy, real, and for the first time in days, satisfying.
In the next few days, the trees begin to thin. The canopy lifts, and sunlight spills across your face in unfiltered waves, warm and blinding. You haven’t felt this warmth on bare skin in years. The ocean’s salt and tang tease your senses first as a scent, faint and foreign, carried on a wind sharper and clearer than anything under the forest canopy. Somewhere ahead, the cry of distant creatures and the flash of gliding shapes over the water tell you: the coast is near.
Helloooo!!! I saw the post for the Male!reader for dispatch!! Do you think you can do one with flambae? Maybe a reader who used to be good villain-friends with him but went MIA one night? Maybe the reader ended up getting into SDN or something more interesting:0
Also hope you’re doing well!! Keep up the work twin!
Ay twin ty sm for requesting this! I'm gonna be real I ran a marathon with your idea so this fic is such a jumble of ideas and headcanons of Flambae. Imma be real, Flambae is not in my top fav Dispatch characters, but i do like me some cocky men. To me, he is such a hard-headed individual that he hates to be perceived as ‘weak’, I hope this fic conveys your idea well! I hope you like it!
Snow Storm Pt.1
Flambae x male!Villain!Reader. Pt.2 // Pt.3
Though you didn't do many of those robberies alone. There was once a time where you had a partner in crime.
Tags: Flambae x male!reader, Flambae x Villain!reader, Prism, Blonde Blazer, Chase, The Z-Team, OOC!Flambae, maybe, First meeting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Jealous!Reader, Arguments, Fights, Described non-lethal wound, No Blood Mentioned, Reader has Ice Powers, I love Prism can you tell lmao, Flambae and his emotional baggage, or him being complicated asf?, idk i just like him a little bit
Being in the Villainy business guarantees a dangerous lifestyle. Going against the law, moving behind shadows and running amongst the busy-bodies of LA, all to make a mysterious persona no officer or hero can catch. It’s living a dangerous, glamorous life, if you succeed, that is.
You remembered your first robbery, a jewelry store local to your hometown. It was small, you recall going there once when you were young with your parents, a snobby clerk who rips off customers for fake diamonds. You wouldn't consider the robbery an anti-hero job, more of avenging the money he scammed from your parents that one time. After all, that necklace was for your mother; how dare that con man use your father’s affections for his quick buck.
Since you've moved to LA, you've advanced from robbing small stores to swindling bigger establishments. Malls, corporate businesses, and other high-end places. Though you didn't do many of those robberies alone.
There was once a time were you had a partner in crime.
You met Flambae in one of the dingy villain dive bars, a couple of months after you first moved to Torrance. Boredom got the best of you, and while you’re not the usual type to go out for drinks, Prism was the one who insisted.
“Baby being holed up in your apartment is not the way you should spend a Saturday night.”
“Prism, you know I don't drink–”
“You don't gotta if you don't wanna! I’m sayin’ just hang around a bit, oggle at some dudes and laugh at drunk people, yknow!” She grins, checking her hair in the mirror while you reluctantly reach for a better shirt than your usual home-wear.
“Oh! And I got this cutie I want you to meet,” She dabs a finger on her lips to better apply her lipstick before continuing. “He’s annoying as hell, but you’ll love him.”
“Well, don't threaten me with a good time,” You huff, sliding into your leather jacket and sliding next to the woman. She glances at your reflection before checking herself again, a grin on her lips.
“It’ll be fun, you can trust me,” Prism smiles, leading you out of your home and into the Los Angeles night.
When you and Prism arrived, she scanned the bar before a man at one of the booths waved his hand. She smirks and hooks an arm around you, immediately ushering you to follow her. When you two got to the booth, said man is wearing a deep red button-up, though it should be considered a button-down with how many buttons are loose. Jet black hair is tied back, a dangerous grin supporting his lips.
“Ayee, it’s good to see you, Prism,” He stands to greet the woman. His eyes glance towards you as he raises a brow. Prism took the hint as she nodded back towards you, standing just to her side.
“Right, Flambae, I want you to meet my friend,” She introduces you, keeping your identity a secret. “He goes by Snow Storm, but Stormy for short.”
“Stormy for friends.” You corrected, flashing a sharp smile towards Flambae.
Said main hums before he smirks, mirroring the same dangerous grin. “Oh yeah? A friend of Prism’s a friend of mine,”
“We’ll see,” You chuckle, shaking his extended hand, letting your frost power seep through just a bit. “And I take it your powers are… fire?”
“I control the fire and flame, I am Flambae,” He smirks, sparks of orange dancing around the clasped hands. Your senses immediately surround your hand with your power, protecting you from his display of fire.
Prism catches the palpable tension between her and sighs loudly, pushing past both of you in the direction of the bar. “You men, I swear!”
“Imma go get us some drinks, try not to kill each other while sober!” She rolls her eyes as she walks, leaving you and Flambae alone. You groan, dropping Flambae’s hand and taking a seat facing him. He does the same, eyes still dissecting your profile. There was silence between you, only interrupted by the bar music and the murmurs of the other patrons' conversation. You glance around, finding subjects to focus your mind on instead of the annoyingly pretty man in front of you before he opens his mouth again, questioning you.
“So uh… How’d you meet Prism?” He raises a brow.
You shrug, tapping a finger on the table. “We were friends before I moved here, I mean– I didn't realize she moved here too, we became close again since she’s the only other person I knew that's from Michigan,”
“Oh, so what brings you here, then?”
“Came here cuz uh… I got bored, I guess.”
“What? Robbing innocent shops isn't as entertaining anymore?” You chuckle at Flambae’s question, shaking your head.
“Aim for a bigger prize is what my folks used to say,” Flambae only hums as a response, before he continues.
“With powers like yours, I thought you’d be running an ice cream truck instead of becoming a villain,” He snickers. “No offence, but uh… your powers aren't exactly… Destructive.”
Flame runs up his arm to his palm, the man's power just as flashy as his personality. You huff and roll your eyes, thinking just how fitting his abilities are to the man. “Right, and you would be better off being somebody’s water heater, but you don't see me saying anything about that,”
His smile drops; instead, Flambae chuckles darkly, a hint of teeth behind a grin, visible annoyance within his eyes. Frost creeps between your fingers, hairs on your skin anticipating a brawl, and yet, Flambae surprises you with a full laugh. You almost lost your composure from his shocking change of demean, but immediately school them back as the man’s laughter dies down.
“Prism has a great taste in friends,” He grins. “She’s friends with me, so of course she does– obviously–”
You were about to interject before he continued with a finger pointed your way. “But you? I like your whole uh- style. It suits you,”
“Thanks…?” You sputter, though you let the compliment simmer within you. When your brain finally caught up, Prism came back with three shots of alcohol, setting them in front of you and Flambae before she made you scoot deeper into the booth.
“Good to know you both haven't torn down the place yet, watch’u been talking about anyway?” She glances between you and Flambae, a smirk playing on her lips.
You stare at Flambae’s hand that's on your shoulder, hairs on your arm standing when you hadn't noticed the man had moved closer. “Just how much of a good friend you are, babe, isn't that right, Stormy?”
“Sure,” Tension makes itself known on your jaw, though you force an easy smile for Prism. Her eyes sharpen before eventually sighing.
“You damn right I am, but you both better not be fighting behind my back,” She points between the two men in front of her. “I wanna record it,”
Ever since then, you, Prism, and Flambae became closer. The relationship was friendly, though between you and Flambae, there was an underlying tension that has yet to be named. Months flew by, and you and the two friends had hung out more than you can count. It was mostly on weekends or after a successful robbery. Prism would bring you, and Flambae never rejects a party. Eventually, the dive bars turn into lunch at local diners, then to random hangout places. The warmth of friendship started to seep between the cracks of the group, and while you kept your secrets deep within you, Flambae was easier to crack than you expected. Whenever he would get drunk, somehow the man finds himself crashing at your place while muttering pieces of his history.
You learned his name, his family, his native background, all from the man rambling in the dead of night. While you're still learning to trust him, you know the first code of maintaining a good villain-friend relationship was to not leak each other's secrets— without payment. So you kept his personal information filed inside your brain, away from prying eyes, even when Flambae often wakes up hungover and cranky, at which he would tumble around your kitchen as you fix him breakfast and drive him back to his place. It almost became a routine, a familiar ritual, to the point of you making mental notes to buy more groceries in case Flambae decided to crash. You got used to his presence.
“You know I can fly, right?” His voice was softer than the radio you almost missed his question. The car was stopped in front of an intersection. The traffic light was on a bright red. It was a bright Friday morning, Flambae sat at the passenger seat while your blank face stared into the streets.
“I’m sorry?”
“This? Driving me home? I don't need it.” He mutters. Your brow furrows, a visible crease on the edges of your lips.
“Okay? You know I don't mind… ” Genuine confusion must be visible as Flambae immediately turned away when he tried to meet your eyes.
“I don't need your charity case, alright?” Flambae answers, his tone clipped. You feel your confusion starting to transition to anger, though you knew better than to escalate.
“I’m– This isn't a charity case, Flambae. I don't think it’s wise to fly around while you’re fucking hungover.”
“Oh, so you care about me– No, I’m not fucking hungover, wise guy!” He bites back, sparks start to show between Flambae’s digits. You inhaled sharply, turning back to face the road when the cars behind you began to honk. Annoyed, you continue to drive, mainly to distract the growing anger.
“Yeah? So it’s okay for me to just kick you out onto the street, right now?” You smile mockingly, glancing at Flambae. You knew stroking the fire was not advised, especially inside your only car that you had no insurance on—It was stolen, alright? Cars are expensive.
“Oh please, y’know that might be for the best,” He crosses his arms, dropping back into the seat, sarcasm laced in his words. You were about to drop the argument before you heard muttering under his breath. If you’ve known Flambae long enough, you know the man was saying things he wished you had heard but didn't.
So instead, you ask, “Okay, then let me ask you one thing;”
“Why do you keep coming back to my apartment, when you’re fucking wasted? Do you know how many times I wish I didn't need to see your stupiddly pretty face all drunk on my goddamn couch and make me worry about what you were doing all night–”
The car halts, a red light you almost ran. Your anger has slipped; you realize when you stare back at the man beside you, out of breath. His expression shocks you, a mixture of embarrassment and anger on his usually confident demeanor. You gulp, holding back the gnawing anger instead. “I… You don't have to answer that– I didn't mean to say–”
“Shut up.”
The air grew humid, a mixture of your abilities leaking into the car and Flambae on the edge of lashing out with his. Crackles can be heard, you gulp, and keep looking at the man beside you, though he has his eyes boring into the dashboard.
“I didn't–”
Flambae pushes open the car door and swiftly slams it closed. You immediately follow him out of the vehicle, shouting his name. The man bursts into flames in front of you, which had you covering your body with a layer of ice, avoiding a serious burn. His eyes are glowing outlines, staring into you before he mutters, “Don't come looking for me.”
He surges upwards and flies away, leaving a scorch mark on the concrete below. You follow his path before Flambae disappears between the clouds, at which you release a pent sigh. Dread settles deep inside your heart, something worse follows the feeling, but you didn't have the capacity to dissect it at that moment. You walk back into your car before the traffic becomes the reason you’re arrested. When you settled back in, you hadn't realized the burn mark that runs up your arm, from your wrist to your upper arm. Flambae’s fire must have burnt through your ice, or amidst the panic, you didn't cover it with enough layers of ice.
Though the wound hurts, it reflects the pain within your core, a mess you have yet to realize.
Weeks had passed by before Flambae talked to you again. Thought it was mostly for Prism’s birthday party. She invited both you and Flambae to her mansion and promised alcohol. While you hesitated, you truly do hold the woman close to your heart, and she was your friend who goes back before you became a villain, so you relented.
You wore your best party casual, keeping your hair tidy and accessorizing appropriately. You decided to wear a cologne, keeping it simple enough for Prisms' usually lavish parties.
The house isn't exactly a mansion, but it is bigger than most apartments. Her house is outside of Beverly Hills, a drive away from your place. When you arrived, the party had already started, judging by the booming music from inside the place and multiple cars and bikes parked outside. You rang the bell and were greeted by Prism in a gorgeous outfit with gold accents, her hair braided down but still supporting the blue and pink colors.
“Stormy, you made it!” She cheers, bringing you into a hug. You laugh, hugging the woman back.
“Wouldn't miss my best friend's birthday party,” You grin. “Oh, and here, it’s a surprise,”
You handed her your gift, which was a necklace wrapped within a shoe box you found, intending to be a prank when she found the smaller jewelry inside its actual box instead of a pair of shoes. She chuckles and sets it aside onto a table piled with other gifts, towering over you.
“Come on! The party’s just gettin’ started!” Prism drags you inside and you follow easily. What you didn't prepare for was to see Flambae on the other end of the lounge, sitting beside another man. The stranger has his arm around Flambae’s shoulder, a sly smile on his lips. Though you're uncertain if Flambae had spotted you, you certainly saw the display, making a putrid feeling in your gut start to swell.
In the past weeks, you had to convince yourself there was nothing between you and Flambae. You were only kind to him as a partner in crime, as someone who's also in the villain world. When he would ramble about his family, you only ever listened intently as a means to gain leverage over him—if ever the time comes. Everything you did had an ulterior motive, is what you kept saying to yourself.
Is what you keep repeating inside your heart, regardless of what you feel.
Prism’s birthday party was amazing, as all lavish parties are. There were drinks, a DJ, you watched your best friend cut her tiered cake, and hosted a dance circle in the middle of the lounge floor. Prism controlled the partygoers with her natural confidence as she danced and sang her original songs, creating an easy atmosphere that everyone followed. The song transitioned into something slower; the bass carried a beat through the room, and the lights had dimmed to a dark indigo. With a few drinks in your system, it was easier to move between the crowd, slipping past bodies with a simple shuffle.
You were nursing your cup of alcohol before your eyes widened at the arrival of Flambae just meters in front of you. He’s making his way between dancing bodies, with a hypnotizing stare that meets your eyes. The room seems to spin, though you would blame the influence of the alcohol; it certainly did not play a part in the warmth you feel creeping up your cheeks. Flambae doesn't break eye contact until he’s chest to chest, practically moving against your body, and a prominent sweet scent goes into your senses.
“Here,” His calloused fingers trail down your arm until they reach your cup. He sets it aside, though he slips his fingers between yours, pulling himself against you.
The music and drinks nurture an intoxicating atmosphere, almost dream-like as Flambae’s lidded eyes take his fill. He whistles lowly, a dangerous smirk on his lips. “Don't you look pretty,”
You huff, feeling the heat on your face, thanking the dim light that it shouldn't be as visible. “I should say the same for you,”
Flambae chuckles as he guides your arms to settle on his hips, letting his own easily hang on your shoulders. You follow his steps into an easy sway, slow and rhythmic, following the beat of the music. The lights flicker a hue of blue and purple, a ghost of white and red follows it. Both of you continued to bathe in each other's warmth, in Flambae’s alluring eyes as he leads the movements.
It wasn't until Flambae grazed the healed burn on your arm did you realized the predicament you both are in. “I’m happy you didn't come running after me like a lost dog,”
Your movements halted. You furrow your brows, staring straight into Flambae. “That's… no– I shouldn't be doing this.”
Flambae feels your hands shake, wavering as they leave his hips. You slowly push him away, making space between the two of you. He hadn't caught on that said space has gone cold, small snowflakes appearing from your hand that pushes against his chest.
“Don't– Don't do this, Flambae.”
The man in question stares at your hand, a sense of bewilderment behind his eyes that he tries to cover with his faux confidence. “Do what? I only wanted a dance–”
“No. You… You left me.” Flambae scoffs as you meet his eyes. “You were the one who left, you don't get to do this to me.”
“I didn't do anything. You don't need to make all this drama.”
“Drama?” You tilted your head, feeling your ice shards seeping through your skin. “Us having breakfast together, talking about our damn lives– That's drama to you?”
“You're making a big deal out of nothin’. Don't wear your heart on your sleeves, Stormy.” Flambae mocks, crossing his arms. You stare at him, mouth slightly agape.
The once simmering anger instead dies down, leaving only a gaping wound within you. Your abilities retract, only poking small holes in the inside of the jacket you wore. You scoff, finding the floor to focus on. “You're right. It was nothing,”
“And it shouldn't become anything.”
You take a step back, permanently widening the rift between you and the man. You gulp, meeting his eyes. There was a tinge of visible regret within Flambae’s eyes, though with how heavy your head seems to feel, you could be mistaken. Instead, you gathered every part of yourself that wasn't hurting. “For a man who talks big about controlling fire, you sure are a coward, Flambae.”
The music continues to thump behind you as you leave the house. You immediately start your car and pull out of the driveway, and if you saw Flambae running out of the house, you decided to pay no attention to it.
—
You were one of the first people to join the Phoenix program. After some time, doing villain work, robbing banks, and stealing stuff can only get so fun until it becomes mundane. You're mostly settled with the amount of money you've gained and so you decided to hand yourself over to SDN to join the new rehabilitation program. It's been a couple of months since you’ve been under Chase, with a team of renowned heroes, while Blonde Blazer gathers more reformed villains into the team.
When Blazer called you into her office, she informed you that she had finally gathered a team of villains to formally start the Phoenix program, and she hoped you could meet them and get yourself acquainted with the team since you’ll become a part of them.
“I’ll be holding a meeting this afternoon, it’s mandatory to come, okay?”
“Like I have anything better to do, miss Blazer,” She regards you with a look which you only shrugged. She’s grown used to your mannerisms, and while you were a former criminal, you’re the least likely to cause trouble in the SDN building. She sends you off to do your shift.
It was an hour past lunch, which was the designated time for the meeting. You finish washing your hands from the sandwich you had earlier and head into the meeting room. As you were about to open the opaque door, a familiar hue of orange and black raised your hairs. You blink, hesitating now to push into the meeting room when Chase suddenly appears next to you.
“What are you doin’ out here kid? Aint ya’ supposed to be there with Blazer, meetin’ all o'those fuckers?” He shakes his head and opens the door. “Come on ya’ ice maker, don't pussy out so now,”
Your answer was cut short when those same sharp eyes met yours. The scabbed wound was suddenly ripped open, beginning pain anew within your rib cage. You scan the room to see familiar and unfamiliar faces, the only comfort you managed to find was Prism's familiar grin, her shining eyes behind her visor.
“There you are,” Blazer smiles, pulling you to stand beside her. “Alright, Z-team, meet your last new member, Snow Storm.”
“Now you all will be working together as a part of the Phoenix program, so I expect some camaraderie and teamwork when you're under your own dispatcher, understand?”
The room mumbles in agreement, though your eyes were glued to Flambae and his frown. Your hand rubs at the burnt skin on your arm. You did not expect to see him again after years of avoiding him, of pushing that hypnotizing smile and borderline-illegal body of his. You did not expect to be working with him either.
You sent a silent prayer to whoever will be the Z-team’s future dispatcher to have the best of luck.
