#aether's flambert library

[iamtherealaetherghoul]

Title: Fire Hazard

Ship: Flambae x Robert

Summary:

Chase knows Flambae is bad news.

He’s reckless, arrogant, and literally catches fire when he gets emotional.

So naturally, Robert starts dating him.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Word count: 12,230

Notes: I wrote this for @spacedace. They posted the idea, and it got stuck in my brain. I've never written Chase, so I did my best, but if he is OOC, that is my bad. I hope it's a good read either way-

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The operations floor at SDN was louder than usual.

A mission had wrapped not twenty minutes earlier, which meant half the building was still running on adrenaline and the other half was trying to organise the aftermath. Screens glowed across the room with mission footage, analysts talking over one another while techs moved between stations with tablets in hand.

Chase stood near the back railing overlooking the floor, arms folded as he watched the chaos settle into something resembling order.

This part of the job he understood.

After a fight people relaxed too fast. Guards dropped. Personalities came back online.

Which was why patterns were easiest to spot right after a mission.

His eyes moved across the room automatically, tracking his team the way he always did.

Prism arguing with a tech about damage reports.

Golem leaning against a support pillar while a medic checked the cracks running along his stone forearms.

And near the far end of the room—

Flambae.

The pyro was in the middle of an argument with one of the junior heroes, voice raised enough that several nearby staff had subtly started drifting away from the blast radius.

“…I’m telling you that corridor was compromised,” the hero insisted.

“It wasn’t,” Flambae shot back.

“You literally set half the ceiling on fire.”

“That was strategic.”

“That was reckless.”

Flambae’s temper flared instantly.

Heat rolled down the hallway as flames began crawling slowly up his forearms, bright and restless.

The junior hero took a cautious half step back.

Across the floor, Robert looked up from the tablet he’d been reviewing.

Chase noticed the shift before anything even happened.

Robert walked straight toward them.

Flambae was still mid-argument.

“—if you’d just followed the damn evac plan—”

“Flambae.”

That was it.

Just his name.

Flambae stopped.

The flames flickered.

Then died completely.

The change was so abrupt it was almost ridiculous.

He scowled down at Robert.

“…What.”

Robert looked up at him with the kind of tired expression usually reserved for malfunctioning equipment.

Then he reached up and gave the side of Flambae’s face a quick pat.

“You’re gonna set the smoke alarm off,” he said flatly. “Let’s take a lap.”

He jerked his thumb down the hallway.

“That’s what your anger management therapist told you to do.”

And then he turned and walked away.

Didn’t wait.

Didn’t look back.

Just assumed Flambae would follow.

Behind him, Flambae stood there for a second, jaw tight, watching Robert disappear down the hall.

Then he huffed under his breath.

“Fucking bossy.”

And followed him.

[iamtherealaetherghoul]

Title: For Morale

Ship: Flambae x Robert

Summary:

Blonde Blazer throws an SDN office party “for morale.”

Flambae discovers the champagne is extremely drinkable. He also realises Robert looks rather sinful.

He can't stop staring.

Things, naturally, escalate.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Word count: 7,105

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There was an office party at the SDN.

Why? Nobody really knew.

Blonde Blazer had announced it during the afternoon briefing with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested she’d decided it five minutes beforehand.

“For morale!” she’d said brightly, clapping once.

Blonde Blazer said a lot of things were for morale.

Mandatory team lunches were for morale. Fire safety drills were for morale. One time she’d tried to get everyone to do a trust fall exercise in the training room and insisted that was also for morale.

So now the Torrance branch was crammed into a decorated conference room with a folding table full of snacks and several bottles of very cheap champagne.

Which, unfortunately for everyone involved, Nasir had discovered was extremely drinkable.

By the time the playlist had looped around to its third vaguely heroic pop song, he was leaning against the drink table with a glass in his hand and a pleasant buzz humming through his veins.

Across the room, Robert was committing several crimes.

Specifically, he was standing there in his SDN-issued work uniform like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Khaki trousers. Blue polo. Little embroidered logo on the chest.

Boring.

Corporate.

Except the shirt stretched across his shoulders when he moved, sleeves hugging his arms just enough to be offensive. The khakis sat low on his hips when he shifted his weight, and every time he tucked a hand into his pocket Nasir’s brain short-circuited a little.

It was deeply inconsiderate.

Nasir took another sip of champagne, eyes narrowing.

Robert glanced over.

Their eyes met across the room.

Nasir didn’t look away. He just lifted his glass slightly in a lazy toast.

Robert exhaled slowly through his nose.

God. Even that was attractive.

[iamtherealaetherghoul]

Title: Where the Fire Settles

Ship: Flambae x Robert

Summary: After weeks of tension, misunderstandings, and a disastrous situationship with a villain, Robert and Nasir finally admit the truth: they’ve been stupidly, painfully in love with each other the whole time. A month later, they’ve settled into something comfortable—full of teasing, quiet domestic moments, and the occasional fire hazard. The team doesn’t know yet… until Robert casually mentions over dispatch comms that he has a boyfriend during a mission. Chaos, confusion, and a very offended Invisigal immediately follow.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Word count: 15,007

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The bar was loud in the comfortable sort of way it always was on a Friday night. Music hummed through the floorboards, glasses clinked, people talked over each other in overlapping bursts of conversation. It was the kind of noise that blurred into the background once you’d been there long enough.

Nasir leaned against the bar like he owned it, one elbow hooked over the counter, spinning the stem of his glass between his fingers. His suit jacket was slung over the back of his chair, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows. Across the room someone laughed too loudly. Someone else knocked into a table and swore.

Beside him, Robert set a fresh drink down without a word.

Nasir glanced at it.

Then at him.

A slow smirk tugged at his mouth. “Didn’t peg you for the attentive type, Mecha Bitch.”

Robert didn’t even look offended anymore. He just leaned his forearms on the bar.

“You complained the last time I guessed wrong.”

“I complain when you breathe.”

Robert huffed out a quiet laugh.

It was automatic, the way he settled beside Nasir. Not hovering exactly, but close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. Like that was simply where he stood now.

[iamtherealaetherghoul]

Title: I Fell In Love With The Fire Long Ago

Ship: Flambae x Robert

Summary: Sometimes Flambae needed to be reminded that Robert Robertson loved him and that, despite what he did in his past, he's not a villain. He's working on himself. And that's why Robert loves him, Robert loves him so much, and Flambae is such a good boy. So good. So sweet. The best boy.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Word count: 5,518

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“I’m not a good person, Robert.”

The words were a raw whisper, torn from the dark. Robert’s hand, which had been stroking circles on a bare, sweat-damp shoulder, stilled. The bedroom was quiet, just the sound of distant rain and Flambae’s uneven breathing.

At the foot of the bed, a small shape stirred.

Dante lifted his narrow head from the blanket, ears twitching. Beef shifted in his sleep, unbothered with Dante’s shifting. The Italian greyhound had been curled like a comma between Robert’s ankles, all ribs and long legs tucked together for warmth. Now he blinked sleepily into the dim room, sensing the shift in the air the way dogs always did.

He stretched, a long trembling line of limbs, then padded up the mattress with delicate little steps.

“Hey,” Robert murmured softly, though he wasn’t sure whether he was talking to Nasir or the dog.

Dante nosed insistently at Flambae’s shoulder.

Flambae didn’t react at first. His face stayed buried in the pillow, broad back tense under Robert’s palm. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 3:17 AM.

Dante, deeply unimpressed with being ignored, climbed directly onto him.

A thin grey leg draped across Flambae’s ribs. His cold little nose pressed against the back of Nasir’s neck with a soft huff.

Robert huffed out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.

“Your emotional support noodle has opinions.”

[iamtherealaetherghoul]

Title: You fucking brat

Ship: Flambae x Robert

Summary: Flambae is a fucking brat, good thing Robert's good at reigning him in

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Word count: 2,559

(From this point on, Flambae's name is no longer Chad; it's Nasir. I go more in depth in the notes)

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The air in the SDN main comms office was always a little stale, recycled through filters that hummed a constant, low note of complaint. Robert leaned back in his chair, the synthetic fabric groaning under his weight. On the main monitor, the city’s status grid glowed a calm, reassuring green. Quiet night. Too quiet, sometimes.

The heavy door to the office hissed open.

Robert didn’t need to look. The shift in the air told him everything—a subtle, expensive cologne undercut by the faint, ever-present scent of ozone and smoke. Flambae.

“Dispatch,” a voice drawled, rich and deliberately lazy. “Reporting for my post-patrol debrief. Sir.”

Robert kept his eyes on the screen, fingers tapping a meaningless rhythm on the console. “Your patrol ended forty-seven minutes ago, Flambae. Debrief window closed at thirty.”

“Mmm, got held up. Civilians. Wanted autographs. What can I say?” Nasir’s boots—custom, flame-embroidered, obnoxiously loud—clicked across the floor until he was leaning against Robert’s station, his hip brushing Robert’s elbow. “You gonna write me up?”

Robert finally swiveled his chair. Nasir was still in his hero gear, the dark, flexible material clinging to every dip and curve of his powerful frame. His dark hair was loose tonight, falling around his shoulders, and his amber eyes held a challenge that was pure, undiluted gasoline. “I’m considering it.”

“Ooh, scary.” Nasir grinned, a flash of white. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that did nothing to hide its edge. “You know what I think? I think you like it when I’m late. Gives you time to…anticipate me.”

“I anticipate paperwork,” Robert said, his tone dry as dust. But his gaze was already tracing the line of Nasir’s jaw, the column of his throat, the way his chest—flat, sculpted, with those faint surgical scars he was so proud of—rose and fell just a little too quickly. “And I think you’re a brat who didn’t get enough attention today.”

Nasir’s grin widened. Bingo. He pushed off the console and walked slowly around Robert’s chair, a predator circling. “Maybe I just like seeing how long it takes before that boring, dispatcher calm cracks. Before Robert Robertson remembers he’s not just a guy in a chair.” His hand came down on Robert’s shoulder, fingers digging in just shy of painful. “Before he remembers what he owns. You have a duty to more than just the city Roberto~”

[iamtherealaetherghoul]

Title: We Learned Each Other Wrong

Ship: Flambae x Robert

Summary:

They start as a clash. Two people on opposite sides of every instinct, every judgement, every choice. Somewhere along the way, that opposition becomes proximity. Proximity becomes understanding. Understanding becomes something harder to name.

Nothing about it is clean. There are things left unsaid, things taken back too late, and things neither of them ever really forget. But there is also patience where there used to be conflict, and softness where there used to be certainty.

What begins as necessity slowly turns into habit. Habit turns into choice. And choice, repeated enough times, starts to look like something permanent.

In the end, it isn’t about how they met, or how they survived each other. It’s about what they decide to build when neither of them walks away.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Word count: 87,378

Extra: This was too long for ao3 so it's been split in half. I recommend reading as 'Entire Work' and not 'Chapter by Chapter', but I can't stop you. It's not formatted to be two chapters so it could cut off weird when viewing as 'Chapter by Chapter'

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The hum of the main dispatch station was a constant, low-grade thrum in Robert’s skull. Green and amber lights blinked across the console, a map of the city sprawled on the main screen, and the chatter from Prism filled the audio feed. But it was the voice in his ear—the one attached to the thermal signature streaking across Sector Four—that turned the air in the room thick and unbreathable.

“Dispatch, my lovely Robert,” Nasir’s voice crackled through the comms, smooth as honey and laced with a grin Robert could picture perfectly. “Target’s cornered in the old textile mill. Lot of flammable material here. You want me to go in hot, or…play it cool?”

Robert adjusted his headset, his fingers tapping a useless rhythm on the desk. Play it cool. He should say that. It was the tactical, sensible option. The words formed in his mouth, dry and professional. But his throat tightened, and what came out was a strained, “Just…secure the perimeter first, Flambae. Don’t light up the whole historical district.”

A soft, knowing chuckle filtered through the speakers. “Secure the perimeter. Right. Because you’re worried about historical preservation. Not about me getting all…sweaty.”

Robert’s eyes flicked to the biometrics sidebar. Nasir’s vitals were steady, elevated but normal for active engagement. His own pulse, according to the wrist monitor he’d forgotten to disable, had spiked. Stupid.

“Focus on the target,” Robert said, his voice dropping into the flat, dispatcher tone he used when he needed armour. “He’s got a kinetic dampener. Your flames might be less effective. Prism is en route for backup.”

“Prism’s always en route for backup,” Nasir sighed, the sound exaggerated. “But you’re my backup, Robbie. My voice in the dark. My…guiding light.”

The innuendo wasn’t even clever. It was blatant. Obvious. And it worked, because Robert felt a flush crawl up from his collar, warm and prickling. He glanced at the empty chair beside him, then at the door to the rest of the Z‑Team’s headquarters, half expecting someone to walk in and see him sitting there, red-faced because the pyro was teasing him over comms.

“Your guiding light is telling you to wait for Prism,” Robert muttered, pulling up the schematics of the mill. “Structural weak points are marked on your tactical display. Use them for entry, not for show.”

“For show? Robert.” Nasir’s tone shifted, dipping into something softer, almost offended. “My shows are only for you. Everyone else just gets the fireworks.”

God. Robert pressed his lips together, a futile attempt to stop the reaction. His mind supplied the image: Nasir, in that ridiculous black suit with the V‑cut that plunged indecently low, standing amidst swirling embers, a dramatic pose, a smirk directed at an imaginary camera…or at Robert’s monitor back here. He did perform. He was theatrical, flamboyant. And Robert…Robert watched. He analysed the footage later, studied the efficiency of the movements, the control of the power. But he also noticed the flex of a shoulder, the way the fabric clung, the confident set of his jaw.

“Fireworks are a distraction,” Robert said, too quickly. “Get in position. Prism’s thirty seconds out.”

“Thirty seconds,” Nasir echoed. “Lots can happen in thirty seconds. I could…rethink my strategy. I could ask you what you’re wearing.”

Robert’s chair creaked as he leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Standard SDN uniform. It’s boring. It’s functional.”

“I bet it’s not,” Nasir countered, his voice dropping to a murmur, as if he’d moved closer to his own mic. “I bet it fits you in all the right places. Those shoulders. That…focus you get when you’re plotting something. It’s a good look.”

The flush was now a full‑body heat. Robert’s fingers clenched. He liked the attention. He hated that he liked it. He hated the warm, stupid curl of pleasure that wound through his gut at the words. He hated that Nasir could do this from kilometres away, through a digital signal, and make him feel exposed.

“You’re off‑channel,” Robert stated, a weak deflection. “This frequency is for operational communication.”

“And I’m communicating,” Nasir said, a laugh bubbling under the words. “Operationally. About my operative’s…state of mind. You sound a bit stressed, Robbie. Tense. You should relax. Let me help.”

[iamtherealaetherghoul]

Title: All the Ways You Take Me (All the Ways I Come)

Ship: Flambae x Robert

Summary:

Robert’s comms channel is meant for strategy, not provocation.

Flambae doesn’t care.

After a day of relentless teasing over a private line, Robert decides to deal with the problem himself—dragging Nasir somewhere quiet, somewhere hidden, somewhere he can finally make good on every filthy promise.

What follows is messy, possessive, and entirely deserved.

And later, when the adrenaline burns out and the world goes quiet, it’s just them again—soft, warm, and tangled together on the sofa like nothing ever happened.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Word count: 10,426

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The comms channel was meant for tactical updates, location checks, casualty reports. Right now, it was carrying something entirely different.

Private Channel - Dispatch to Flambae: “Flambae, you’re deviating from the patrol route. Confirm your position.”

A second message popped up instantly.

Private Channel - Flambae to Dispatch: “My position is between your legs, Robert with my mouth on your cock. Can you confirm that for me?”

Robert stared at the screen in his dimly lit control hub. The hum of servers, the blinking map of Los Angeles County, the quiet chatter from other dispatchers...none of it registered. All he saw were those words, typed out with Flambae’s characteristic, infuriating flair.

He didn’t reply. He just clenched his jaw and watched the live feed from Flambae’s body camera. The pyrokinetic was currently hovering above a minor traffic snarl-up caused by a rogue teleporter, lazily directing civilians with bursts of controlled flame. He looked effortless, powerful—his black suit gleaming under the afternoon sun, the deep V-cut showing off the sweat-slicked planes of his chest and abs. He looked like he was having fun.

Another message.

Private Channel - Flambae to Dispatch: “I’d suck you so good, Robert. I’d get my tongue under that ridge, work the tip until you’re shaking. You’d grab my hair. You’d fucking love that.”

Robert’s fingers tightened around his stylus. He knows. He knew Robert hated this, hated the distraction, hated the way his own body reacted despite the hatred. And he knew Robert loved pulling his hair. Flambae had moaned about it once, after a brutal training session, half-joking, half-serious. I like it when you yank my ponytail. Makes me feel owned.

He’d filed that away. He filed everything about Flambae away.

The mission ended. Standard debrief protocol: Flambae was to return to the branch, file a report, stow his gear. Robert watched the tracker on his screen. The bright dot representing Flambae moved across the map, heading back toward the squat concrete building in Torrance. It moved fast. Flambae always moved fast.

Robert stood up. His chair squeaked. He didn’t look at his colleagues. He just walked out of the hub, his steps measured, his mind a single, focused point of white-hot irritation. The needy, bratty, constant fucking teasing. All day. Through every minor alert, every routine check-in. Private channels buzzing with images Robert didn’t want in his head: Flambae on his knees, Flambae begging, Flambae taking him deep, Flambae’s ass—

He reached the main corridor just as the exterior doors sighed open. Flambae strode in, the hero gear shimmering with residual heat. He was grinning, that wide, vibrant grin that made his amber eyes sparkle. He saw Robert immediately and the grin widened, turned knowing.

“Robertson!” he called, voice echoing in the tiled hallway. “Miss me?”

[iamtherealaetherghoul]

Title: I'm Handling It (Please Show Me How To Stop Doing Things Alone)

Ship: Flambae x Robert

Summary:

After everything goes wrong, Robert is left picking up the pieces—something he’s used to doing alone. Flambae refuses to let that happen again, even if it means he has to burn the world down to prove it.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Word count: 25,661

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The gym was empty except for the rhythmic, punishing thud of Robert Robertson’s feet against the treadmill belt. The Torrance Branch changing room hummed with the low drone of the air conditioning, a sound he usually tuned out, but tonight it grated. It was a metallic, hollow echo that matched the feeling in his chest. He’d pushed past the thirty-minute mark his body had clearly signalled for him to stop at, past the forty, and now the digital display blinked a cruel 52:17. His lungs burned with a dry, papery ache, and his legs felt like they were moving through sludge, but he kept the pace steady. Just a bit more. Just until you can’t think.

It wasn’t about fitness. It was about exhaustion. A specific, total depletion that left the mind too tired to wander down its usual dark corridors. The thoughts about his father’s voice, the memories of a childhood spent feeling like a guest in his own life, the constant, low-grade hum of not being worth the space you take up—they all needed a threshold. A point of fatigue so absolute they couldn’t climb over it. He’d found that threshold, once, in other ways. The clean, sharp sting of a blade against his wrist in the SDN locker’s sterile silence. The reckless dive into a fight zone where his tactical brain calculated the odds of survival as a flat, academic zero. He’d had it handled. That was the mantra. A private, brittle lie he told himself every morning when he looked at Beef, his chihuahua, wagging his tail against the leg of the sofa. I have it handled.

The treadmill beeped a final warning, and Robert slammed his hand against the stop button, his body lurching forward as the belt slowed. He stumbled off, his plain khaki SDN trousers and loose t-shirt clinging to him with sweat. He braced himself against the cool metal rail, head bowed, watching the condensation from his breath fog the polished surface. Fine. He was fine. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, the salt sting sharp in his eyes.

The door to the gym swung open with a soft sigh. He didn’t turn. He knew the cadence of those footsteps—light, almost skipping, accompanied by the faint rustle of iridescent fabric.

“Robbie? You’re here late.” Prism’s voice was a mix of curiosity and that trademark mischievous concern. She leaned against the doorframe, her multicoloured costume a splash of impossible light in the dim room. “Blazer said you clocked out an hour ago.”

Robert straightened, turning slowly. His auburn hair was damp and stuck to his forehead, his freckles standing out against the flushed skin. “Just finishing up,” he said, his voice dry and flat. The just hung in the air, useless.

Prism’s eyes, bright and observant behind her dramatic mask, scanned him. She took in the tremor in his hands as he reached for his water bottle, the way his shoulders were set too tight, like he was expecting a blow. “Right,” she said, not pushing. She knew the shape of this quiet. She’d seen it in Flambae, too, in the moments before he’d erupt into flame. “Nasir’s in the comms room. Said he wanted to check the logs for the Shroud intel. Probably just waiting for you.”

Robert’s throat tightened. Nasir. Flambae. The man with the low-cut black suit and the temper that could melt steel. The man who teased him until his ears went pink, who brought him absurdly elaborate meals he’d cooked himself, who’d somehow...become a point of gravity in Robert’s otherwise weightless life. It was never clear. They’d never labelled it. It was just there, a constant, confusing pull.

“I’ll head up,” Robert muttered, avoiding Prism’s gaze. He gathered his things—a worn backpack, his keys—and moved towards the door. His body protested every step, a deep, muscular soreness settling in.

Prism shifted, blocking his path for a second, not with her body but with her presence. “He made kebab today. It’s in the fridge on the third floor. He said...he said to tell you it’s there if you wanted it.” She paused, her tone softening, losing its performative edge. “He looked for you earlier.”

Something cracked inside Robert’s chest, a small, painful fissure. He nodded, a quick, jerky motion, and slipped past her into the corridor.

The walk to the comms room was a study in slow motion. The SDN HQ at night was a different creature. The daytime chaos of ringing phones, shouting heroes, and Blazer’s pep talks was gone, replaced by the ghost of it—the faint smell of burnt circuitry from Flambae’s last mishap, the faint glow of emergency lights, the distant hum of servers. Robert’s own footsteps echoed back at him, a solitary rhythm.

He paused outside the comms room door, a plain grey slab with a keycard reader. His hand hovered. He could go home. Feed Beef. Sit in the silence of his flat and let the thoughts come. That was the plan. The handled plan.

But the image of Nasir, probably sprawled in one of the chairs with his boots off, scrolling through footage with that intense, focused look he got when he was properly working, not just showing off...it pulled him forward. He swiped his card. The door clicked open.