can you do platonic yandere superfamily + ma and pa Kent (idk why know one ever includes them) x teen reader where we are an orphan kid living in the Appalachia mountains, the town itself is surrounded by eldritch monsters and other supernatural sightings.
Reader is a ray of sunshine, they are sweet, kind and caring, they type that kids and animals naturally flock to, despite the cirrucmstances of the nightmare town they were raised in, they always have a smile on there face.
Reader also sings gigs in the town to kind of bring some kind of joy into the town and to share there talent and passion. Maybe the justice league finds the town on a mission and Clark sees reader and is like i need take this child home with me back to smallville to live on the farm
You: [covered in blood]
"Before anyone freaks out, the blood isn't mine."
Clark: "...Whose is it?"
You: "Technically? It belonged to the cryptid tax collector. But he's a moth now."
Kon: "YOU FOUGHT A TAX COLLECTOR?"
You: "He bit me first."
You: [holding a banjo like a weapon]
āBack home we solve things with music, hugs, or throwing someone into the Bone Pit.ā
Jon: āThat last one sounds fake.ā
You: "Tell that to Mayor Ribcage.ā
Supergirl: āMayor who now???ā
Clark: "You canāt adopt a kid just because they're cute and emotionally resilient."
Clark 5 seconds later: "I will personally incinerate anything that makes you cry."
You: [accidentally smile at someone in town]
Kon: āOkay, who was that and do I need to break their kneecaps?ā
You: āThey just gave me a compliment.ā
Jon: āYeah, a compliment you didnāt ask for.ā
Supergirl: āSuspicious behavior.ā
You: "Animals love me. Kids love me. Ghosts love me."
Ma Kent: "You're just so sweet, sugar!"
Clark: "Exactly. Which is why no one else is allowed to look at you for more than 3 seconds."
You: "That's not how people work."
Clark: deadpan "It is now."
You: [singing while summoning eldritch forces to calm a crying baby]
Batman: "Is that... a lullaby or a summoning ritual?"
Clark: sipping tea with Ma Kent "Both. Just let them work."
You: "Iām not saying my childhood was weird, but one time I got possessed by a fog spirit because I tripped over a haunted log."
Supergirl: āWHY ARE YOU SO CASUAL ABOUT THIS???ā
You: āIt was a Tuesday.ā
Kon: "So... this cryptid was trying to date you?"
You: "I mean, they brought me flowers and screeched into the void for three days. Thatās basically a proposal where Iām from."
Jon: "No. No, we are never going back there."
Clark: [putting a blanket over you]
"You're too precious. The world doesn't deserve you."
You: "I once ate soup with a spoon made out of teeth."
Clark: "Still too precious."
You: "Ma Kent, is it bad that the shadow creatures call me 'their sun?'"
Ma Kent: [hugging you tightly] "You are everyoneās sun, darlin'. Even the creepy ones."
Supergirl: "You once talked a ghost into doing your math homework. Thatās both adorable and disturbing."
You: "He just wanted someone to listen to his poetry. I multi-tasked."
Clark: "They belong on a farm where itās safe."
You: "Yesterday I made friends with a sentient scarecrow."
Pa Kent: "That's our kid."
You: "You know, Iām not helpless. I once punched an eldritch god so hard it coughed up my cat."
Kon: "Weāre not saying youāre helpless. Weāre saying weād commit crimes for you."
Jon: "With zero hesitation."
Clark: "And diplomatic immunity."
( English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in the following text.)
(This fic is inspired by this post)
The air in your cell was always the same - sterile, chilled, and utterly still, a stark contrast to the tempest of thought and power that swirled within you. It was a prison designed not just to hold a body, but to cage a mind, a gilded birdcage paid for by the United States government to keep your mother, the legendary Edna Mode, in check. They feared what she might create if she were truly unshackled, and they knew the one chain she would never break was the one connected to you.
Your gaze drifted from the sleek, minimalist sketches in your hand to the woman on the other side of the impregnable glass. She was, as always, a vision of severe elegance, her black bob sharp enough to cut, her large glasses reflecting the soft glow of the cell's lighting. She was studying your drawings, her expression one of intense, professional scrutiny.
"How should I make the skirts, Mama?" you asked, your voice a low, smooth baritone that never seemed to rise in volume, yet carried perfectly in the acoustically-tuned room. You leaned a shoulder against the cool, transparent wall, the gesture casual, but your mind was calculating the tensile strength of the polymer, the frequency of the energy field humming within it, the precise amount of gravitational force it would take to shatter it into a million glittering pieces. You did not, because she was here.
Your motherās eyes, magnified by her glasses, flicked from the sketch to your face. There was a profound, aching love in that gaze, a love that was both your greatest comfort and your most effective prison. They had taken you during the war, when your powers of gravitic manipulation had first manifested not as simple flight, but as the ability to crush battleships into spheres of scrap metal. They saw a weapon. They saw an "Evil" genius. They saw the son of the woman who was, even then, single-handedly architecting the age of heroes with her designs. To control her, they caged you.
And she visited. Every week. Bringing you books, magazines, scientific journals, and fabric swatches. These design sessions were your lifeline, the one thing that kept the yawning abyss of madness at bay.
"Pencil skirts are for secretaries and politicians, mein sohn," Edna replied, her voice crisp. "For civilians. For capsules!" She spat the last word with her trademark disdain. "We do not follow fashion. We define it." She leaned closer, her voice dropping, becoming conspiratorial. "The waist, you have it here, high. Excellent. It speaks to a classical form. But the skirt... imagine it not as a tube, but as a series of overlapping panels. Like the petals of a flower, or the plates of armor. They lay flat when stationary, but with movement..." she made a graceful, unfolding gesture with her hands, "they open. They breathe. They allow for a kick, a leap, a sudden pivot. It is a contradictionāelegance and utility in one."
Your mind ignited, the gravitational field in your cell subtly fluctuating as your concentration deepened. The air grew heavier, the light seeming to bend slightly towards you. "Yes," you breathed, your pencil flying across a fresh sheet of paper. "Articulated panels. A hidden flexibility. A secret power." You thought of your own, the invisible force that you could wield to make a feather fall like a hammer or a tank float like a dandelion seed. "It is a lie that tells the truth."
A shadow passed behind Edna's eyes then, a ghost of a memory you both shared. You knew she saw him in youānot just her son, but the father of the little girl she sometimes, carefully, spoke of. Violet. Your Violet. Conceived in a stolen moment of passion with a heroine who could phase through walls, a woman who understood what it was to be intangible in a world of solid, unyielding things. A woman Syntro's robots had torn from this world before she could even hold her daughter. Your daughter. Given to Bob Parr and his wife to raise, to keep her safe, to keep her from ending up in a cage like her father.
Edna's visits were her penance and her solace. In designing these impossible, forward-thinking fashions with you, she was connecting with the mind she so admired. And in her eyes, when she looked at the pictures of the Parr family she discreetly provided, you saw the truth. She doted on Jack-Jack not just for his own burgeoning, chaotic talents, but because in his fiery red hair and limitless potential, she saw the echo of her own brilliant, lost boy. She was trying to fill the chasm you had left in her life.
You finished the new sketch, holding it up. The skirt was a masterpiece of implied motion, a work of art that was also a blueprint for a battle-suit. "For the next generation, Mama," you said softly, your voice thick with an emotion you usually kept locked down as tight as your cell.
Edna Mode looked at the design, then at you, her son. The genius. The gravity-well. The father. The prisoner.
"Ja," she whispered, a single, perfect tear tracing a path down her powdered cheek before she swiftly wiped it away. "No capes. But for this... for this, we make an exception." It was a joke, and it wasn't. It was a promise. A memory. A shared dream of a world that had labeled them both, in their own ways, monsters, and in doing so, had failed to see the beauty they could create together.
"How's she mama?" You ask tentatively
The air in the cell, always so sterile and still, seemed to grow heavier with your question. The creative energy that had just crackled between you, shaping the future of fashion and function, dissipated, replaced by something more fragile, more raw.
Edna did not startle. She was a woman who anticipated everything. But the line of her shoulders, usually pulled back with impeccable posture, softened almost imperceptibly. Her gaze, which had been fixed on the revolutionary skirt design, drifted downward to the small, locked portfolio she always carried.
There was a long pause, filled only by the nearly inaudible hum of the containment field. You could feel the gravity in the room wanting to respond to the ache in your chest, a subtle pull towards a center of pain you kept tightly leashed.
"How's she, Mama?" you asked again, your voice softer, the smooth baritone now laced with a vulnerability you reserved only for this topic.
Ednaās fingers, usually so decisive and sharp in their movements, trembled slightly as she unclasped the portfolio. She didn't look at you immediately, instead studying the contents as if seeking guidance.
"She... thrives," Edna began, her voice carefully modulated, each word a deliberate brick laid in a wall to hold back a tide of emotion. "The Parrs. They are... adequate. They provide a stability that is... beneficial."
She slid a single, pristine photograph through the narrow, shielded slot at the base of the glass used for passing documents. Your hand, which could manipulate the fundamental forces of the universe, trembled as you reached for it.
It was her. Violet.
She was older than in the last photo. Her hair, the same dark, sleek shade as her mother's, was longer. She wasn't looking at the camera, but rather down at a book, a faint, serious frown on her lips. She was sitting on a sofa, tucked into a corner, one knee drawn up to her chin. The very picture of adolescent introversion.
"You see the posture," Edna murmured, her voice gaining a sliver of its usual analytical strength. "The withdrawn nature. It is a defense mechanism. She feels... different. Of course, she is. But they treat it as a social awkwardness, not a... potential."
You traced the outline of her face on the cool surface of the photograph. Your daughter. A girl who could make light bend and solid matter intangible, being raised by a man whose greatest power was his physical strength. The irony was a bitter pill.
"Has she...?" you couldn't finish the question. Has she shown any signs? Any of her mother's phasing? Any of my... gravity?
"Nothing overt," Edna said, anticipating you as always. "But there are... anomalies. Objects that seem to fall around her when she is distressed. A strange shimmer in the air when she feels cornered. It is subtle. The Parrs are too... normal to see it for what it is."
There was a hint of her old contempt for the mundane in that word, "normal." It was the same tone she used for "capsules."
"She is safe," you stated, needing the confirmation more than the air you breathed.
"She is safe," Edna affirmed, her gaze finally meeting yours through the glass. In her eyes, you saw the complex, painful truth. She was ensuring Violet's safety, not just from the world, but from *this*. From a life behind glass. She was giving her the normal childhood you were denied, the childhood she now tried to replicate in fragments with Jack-Jack.
You looked back at the photo, at the girl who was the living, breathing ghost of the love you had lost.
"Good," you whispered, the word heavy with a grief that had its own gravitational pull. You placed the photograph carefully beside your sketch of the armored skirtātwo different kinds of designs, both born from a love that was powerful enough to shape the world, and painful enough to shatter it.
"I can't take it anymore mama...the heros are being accepted by the society once more! can't I leave this wretched place? it has been 15 years!"
The silence that followed your outburst was more profound than any you had ever felt. The hum of the containment field seemed to swallow the very echo of your words. The photograph of Violet felt suddenly heavy in your hand, a token of a life lived just beyond the glass.
Edna Mode went perfectly still. For a moment, she was not a legendary designer, not a retired force of nature, but simply a mother, her heart breaking in sterile, government-issue lighting. The sharp lines of her face seemed to soften, the armor of her composure cracking.
"Fifteen years..." you repeated, the number a lead weight in your stomach. Your voice, usually so controlled, was frayed, the smooth baritone cracking under the strain of a decade and a half of confinement. "They parade them on television now. The Omnidroid, Syndrome... it's all forgiven. The world needs its heroes again. But they leave me in here." You slammed a palm flat against the glass. It didn't reverberate; it was designed not to. It absorbed the impact, and the sound, with insulting efficiency. "I am not a villain. I never was. I was a precaution. A bargaining chip to keep you in line."
You watched her, your chest heaving. The gravitational field in your cell reacted to your anguish. The discarded sketches on your small desk lifted, floating in a slow, mournful orbit around your body. The light bent, warping around you in a visible shimmer.
"Mein sohn," Edna whispered. The words were not a reprimand. They were a plea.
"Do not 'my son' me, Mama!" you snapped, the pain turning to a sharp, desperate anger. "You designed for gods! You built suits that could withstand volcanoes and nullify lasers! You see the future in a spool of thread! Look at this place!" You gestured wildly at the pristine, soulless cell. "You could get me out. You *know* you could. A frequency modulator to disrupt the field. A phased polymer cutter. You could build it in an afternoon from scraps in your workshop!"
Tears, hot and shameful, finally welled in your eyes. You were a man who could conceptualize the curvature of spacetime, yet you were powerless against a few inches of engineered material. The irony was a constant, gnawing torture.
"I see her," you choked out, holding up Violet's picture. "I see her growing up in a world that would call her a monster if they knew. A world I could help shape! I could protect her! Not from a prison cell!"
Edna removed her glasses, a rare and profound gesture. She polished the lenses with a silk cloth from her pocket, her movements slow, deliberate, giving herself time. When she replaced them, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry.
"Do you think," she began, her voice low and dangerously calm, "that I have not run the calculations? That I have not drafted a hundred designs for your freedom? A suit to negate their sensors. A device to mask your unique gravitational signature."
She took a single, sharp step forward, pressing her own palm against the glass, mirroring yours.
"And do you think," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper you had to strain to hear, "that the moment you take one step outside this facility, the 'precaution' becomes active? They do not have one file on you, they have thousands. Contingencies. The moment you are deemed 'loose', the order is given. Not for you."
Her eyes, magnified and deadly serious, locked with yours.
"For her. For Violet. An 'accident'. A tragic gas leak in the Parr household. An unexplained illness. They showed me the files, mein sohn. To ensure my continued... cooperation."
The breath left your lungs. The floating sketches fluttered to the floor as your control shattered. The world outside the glass, the world of heroes and acceptance, twisted into a gilded cage far more terrifying than your own. Your freedom was not just your own. It was a sword hanging over your daughter's head.
You slid down the glass, your back to it, the fight draining out of you to be replaced by a cold, bottomless despair. You were not just a prisoner of the government. You were a prisoner of a love so vast it required your eternal sacrifice.
You heard a soft rustle as Edna slid down to sit on the other side, her back to yours, only the cold, unyielding polymer between you.
"I know," was all she said, her voice thick with a shared, impossible grief. "I know."
"I just want to hold the memory of my love, my daughter...just once...I am sure she thinks that brute of a man is her father"
The words hung in the air, thicker and heavier than the containment field itself. They were not shouted in anger, but whispered into the space between your back and the glass, a confession of a pain so profound it had no volume. The fight was gone, leaving only the raw, aching truth.
On the other side, you felt Edna shift, her small frame settling more firmly against the glass, a phantom pressure against your spine. The silence was different nowānot charged, but shared, a mutual mourning.
"That... brute," Edna's voice came through, laced with a venom so pure it was almost a comfort, "provides a roof. He provides a name. He provides the illusion of normalcy that keeps her safe from the vultures who would dissect her genius, her potential, just as they dissected her father's."
You closed your eyes, the image of Bob Parrāall blustering strength and simple moralityāflashing in your mind. A good man. A painfully, infuriatingly good man. He would never understand the subtle calculus of gravitic fields, the beautiful complexity of a mind that could see the stress points in a building or a social construct with equal clarity. He would see a daughter who was shy, not a daughter who was powerful enough to make the world itself ignore her.
"He tucks her in at night," you whispered, the words tasting like ash. "He tells her everything will be alright. He gets to see her frown at her homework, to hear her laugh..." Your voice broke. "He gets to be the one she calls 'Dad'. And I... I get quarterly photographs and a lifetime of silence."
The injustice of it was a physical weight on your chest, a gravity well of your own making, pulling everything inward toward a crushing point of sorrow.
"You hold her every time you draw," Edna said, her voice softening, becoming the one you remembered from a childhood spent surrounded by blueprints and marvels. "You hold her in the lines of your designs. You see her mother's grace in the drape of a conceptual gown, her potential for power in the articulation of a hidden seam. The Parr man gives her a present. You... you are designing her future. The world she will one day inherit."
She paused, and you could almost hear the careful editing in her mind, choosing which truths to wield as a balm and which to keep sheathed.
"And she does not think he is her father," Edna stated, her tone becoming analytical, definitive. "Not in the way you mean. A child knows. On a level that has nothing to do with facts. She feels the absence. She feels the silence where another voice, another presence, should be. It is why she hides in the corners. It is why she creates her own shields, long before her powers ever manifest. She is waiting for the missing piece."
A single, hot tear traced a path down your temple and dripped onto the cold floor. It was the most painful and the most beautiful thing your mother could have said. That your absence was a tangible thing to your daughter. A void that yearned to be filled.
You let your head fall back against the glass, right where you knew her head rested. For a long time, you both sat there in silence, two geniuses, two forces of nature, trapped by a love that was both your prison and your only tether to the world.
"Then I will keep drawing, Mama," you murmured, the fight gone, replaced by a weary, determined resolve. "I will design a world worthy of her. Even if I never get to see her step into it."
It was a life sentence. But it was a sentence you would serve for her.
Then an idea popped in your head "Can't I meet her? briefly? as a family friend from time to time? supervised of course"
The silence stretched, thin and taut as a wire. Then, a soft, almost imperceptible sound came from the other side of the glass. It wasn't a laugh. It was darker, more sorrowful. A sigh that held the weight of every failed blueprint, every calculated risk that had proven too dangerous.
"Ach, mein Kind," Edna murmured, her voice thick with a pity that felt like a physical blow. "You think like a father, not a strategist. You see a visit. A smile. A moment. They see a variable. An uncontrolled interaction."
She shifted, and you imagined her straightening her jacket, recomposing herself into the impenetrable Edna Mode the world knew.
"A 'family friend'?" she continued, her tone sharpening. "What is your cover story? A long-lost colleague of mine? They will dig. They will find nothing, because you have no past outside these walls for the last fifteen years. Your existence is a state secret, buried deeper than nuclear codes. The moment you appear, even 'supervised,' you become a loose end. And loose ends..." she let the sentence hang, the threat she had already articulatedāthe threat to Violetāfilling the silence.
The spark of hope in your chest guttered, but you fanned it, desperate. "Then not as me. A disguise. You could design it! A face, a voice... something even their scanners wouldn't penetrate. You've done it for heroes before."
"FOR HEROES!" The words cracked through the room, sharp and final. She had stood up. You could feel her shadow falling over you through the glass. "Heroes are public. Their identities are the disguise! Your identity is the threat! Do you think I have not considered this? That I have not lain awake, designing a hundred different faces for my own son?"
Her voice dropped again, becoming a fierce, hushed whisper. "The risk is not in the disguise failing. The risk is in you. A single glance held a moment too long. A slip of a phrase that only her true father would know. A gravitational anomaly, a flicker in the lights because your heart aches to reach for her. They would be watching, not with the eyes of guards, but with the eyes of scientists studying a dangerous specimen. They would see the connection. They would document it."
She leaned down, her face close to the glass, her reflection superimposed over your slumped form. "And what of her? She is a perceptive girl. She feels absences. What do you think it would do to her, to meet a 'stranger' who feels... familiar? Who stirs a ghost of a memory she cannot possibly have? It would not give her a father. It would give her a mystery. A haunting. It would make the absence you feel now a active, painful confusion for her. Is that the gift you wish to give?"
Each word was a precise, surgical cut, severing the fragile roots of your idea. She was right. Of course, she was right. She had run the scenarios, calculated the probabilities, and the result was always the same: catastrophic failure.
The hope died completely, leaving a cold, hollow certainty. You uncurled from the floor, your movements slow, weighted with a fresh layer of despair. You looked at the sketches of the articulated skirt, at the photograph of your daughter. Two beautiful, impossible futures.
"You are right, Mama," you said, your voice flat, emptied of all emotion. "It was a foolish thought."
Edna watched you, her expression unreadable behind her glasses. "It was not foolish," she corrected, her voice softening once more. "It was a father's thought. And that is why it could never be." She collected her portfolio, her movements efficient and final. "I will be back next week. We will continue the designs for the fall line."
It was a dismissal and a promise. The visit was over. The business of survival, of loving from a distance, would continue. You were left alone again, with nothing but the ghost of a possibility and the crushing certainty that the only way to hold your daughter was to forever remain a ghost yourself.
The silence after Edna's departure was a physical presence, thick and suffocating. You stood in the center of your cell, the schematics for the articulated skirt and the photograph of Violet lying side-by-side on your deskāa testament to a genius that could shape the future but was powerless to change its own. The despair was a familiar anchor, pulling you down into the cold, polished floor.
Days bled into one another. You ate, you slept, you designed, the routine as unyielding as the walls. Then, a shift.
It was in the demeanor of the guards during your hourly perimeter check. Their posture was less rigid, their eyes, usually blank slates of protocol, held a flicker of something elseācuriosity, perhaps even a sliver of pity. The head of your security detail, a stern man you knew only as Agent Briggs, had always been a statue of unwavering discipline. But one afternoon, as the food slot hissed open, he didn't immediately step back.
He lingered for a moment, his gaze scanning your latest batch of sketches, which included a design for a child's coat with a collar that could theoretically deploy a hard-light shield.
"Ambitious," Briggs said, his voice a low rumble. It was the first unsolicited comment he had ever made.
You looked up, wary. "A theoretical exercise. For inclement weather."
Briggs gave a non-committal grunt. "The world's changing, Professor. Faster than the old protocols can keep up with. The Incredibles... what they did in Metroville... it's reset the board. Public opinion is shifting. The 'Supers' aren't a threat anymore; they're a necessity."
You remained silent, your mind racing, calculating the angles. This was not simple small talk.
He tapped the reinforced glass with a knuckle. "Some of us... we read the old files. The initial reports from the war. They didn't call you 'Evil' then. They called you 'Asset Gamma'. Your actions saved an estimated fifty thousand civilians when you collapsed that artillery barrage into a singularity over the English Channel." He paused, letting the weight of that statement settle. "The current administration is... re-evaluating what constitutes a 'threat'."
A wild, dangerous hope, one you had forcibly suppressed for years, began to stir.
"What are you saying, Agent?"
"I'm saying the political winds are shifting," Briggs said, his voice dropping even lower. "The argument that holding the son of Edna Mode is a strategic necessity is losing ground. There's talk. Of a phased rehabilitation. Supervised, of course. Heavily supervised."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You forced your breathing to remain even, your gravitational field to remain stable. "Rehabilitation to what end?"
Briggs's eyes flickered to the photograph of Violet, then back to you. "To the end of being a productive, if monitored, member of society. Perhaps even a consultant. Your mother isn't the only genius who can design for a new age of heroes." He straightened up, the moment of informality gone. "A proposal is being drafted. It will take time. But for the first time in fifteen years, it's being drafted."
He turned and left, the heavy door sealing shut with a definitive thud.
You were left alone, but the air itself felt different. It was no longer sterile; it was charged with potential. The government was loosening its grip, not out of kindness, but out of a new, calculated need. They saw the rising tide of super-powered individuals and realized they had caged one of the brightest minds capable of understanding and countering them.
A slow, calculated smile touched your lips. It was not a smile of joy, but of strategy. They were offering a leash instead of a cage. A longer leash, perhaps, one that might even allow you to walk within sight of your daughter.
You picked up your pencil. The design for the child's coat was no longer a theoretical exercise. It was a prototype. You began sketching again, not just fashions, but schematics for energy-diffusing materials, for gravitic stabilizers small enough to be woven into the lining of a jacket. You would give them what they wantedāa consultant, a genius they could use. You would play their game.
Because every step you took in their world, every design you approved, every "consultation" you gave, would be a step closer to her. And this time, you would not be the ghost in the machine. You would be the architect of your own redemption, and of a world truly safe for your daughter. The game had changed. And you were finally being dealt back in.
***
The day arrived not with a fanfare, but with a quiet, bureaucratic efficiency that was somehow more terrifying. It had only been three weeks since Agent Briggsās cryptic message. The proposal, it seemed, had found surprising momentum.
You were not prepared.
They didn't lead you out in shackles. Instead, two agents in crisp, dark suits escorted you from your cell for the first time in fifteen years. The world outside was a sensory assault. The hallway seemed to stretch for miles, the ceiling impossibly high. The hum of the ventilation system was different, the air smelled of industrial cleaner and, faintly, of rain. You had to consciously suppress the instinct to alter your personal gravity, to make the floor feel as solid as the one you were accustomed to.
They took you to a neutral room, not unlike an executive conference room, but with softer lighting and a pair of comfortable armchairs. One wall was a one-way mirror. You knew who would be on the other side. Briggs. Analysts. Your keepers.
"Remember the parameters," Agent Briggs said, his voice calm but firm. He stood by the door. "One hour. Supervised interaction. You are a consultant from my department, a specialist in adolescent meta-human development we've brought in to assess her potential in a controlled, academic context. Your name is Dr. Elias Vance. Any deviation from this narrative, any attempt to reveal your identity, and this ends. Permanently."
You barely heard him. Your heart was a frantic drum against your ribs. Dr. Elias Vance. The name felt like ash in your mouth.
The door on the opposite side of the room opened.
And there she was.
Violet.
She was taller than in the photographs, all long limbs and a guarded slouch. She wore a dark jacket and a skirt, her hair falling like a curtain over one side of her face. She looked bored, resentful, dragged here on another of her parents' misguided attempts to "understand" her.
Then her eyes met yours.
It was like a physical impact. She had her mother's eyes. The exact same shade of deep, intelligent brown. For a fleeting second, you saw the ghost of your lost love in her face, and the gravitational field in the room wavered. The pen on the small table between the chairs vibrated, lifting a millimeter before you slammed your control back into place, your knuckles white where you gripped the armrest.
"Violet Parr," Briggs said, his voice unnaturally cheerful. "This is Dr. Vance. He's just going to ask you a few questions about some of the... unique things you might have experienced."
She gave a non-committal shrug and slouched into the chair opposite you, not making eye contact again. "Whatever."
The door closed, leaving the two of you alone in the soft light, a universe of unspeakable truth and a carefully constructed lie between you.
The script they had given you evaporated from your mind. All the clinical questions about "sensory phenomena" and "spatial awareness" seemed grotesque. You were a genius. You had theorized about eleven-dimensional space. And you could not form a single, simple sentence.
You just looked at her, drinking in the reality of her presence. The small, frustrated line of her mouth. The way her fingers picked at a loose thread on her skirt. She was real.
"You know," you began, your voice strangely hoarse. You cleared it, forcing the smooth, academic tone of 'Dr. Vance'. "They ask me to quantify the unquantifiable." You gestured vaguely, a gesture you had seen your mother make a thousand times. "To put numbers on a feeling."
That made her look up, a flicker of interest in her guarded eyes.
"You designed the suit for the new hero, Dyna-Might," she said, surprising you. Her voice was quiet, but clear. "I saw the schematics in a magazine. The way you used interlocking carbon-filament to redistribute kinetic force... it's smarter than anything Mr. Incredible ever wore."
Your breath caught. She had noticed. She had understood.
"It has its merits," you said, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest. "But it lacks... elegance. It is a sledgehammer. True design should be a scalpel."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "My... my dad says the best power is just being strong enough to punch through your problems."
You felt a stab of something hot and sharpājealousy, grief, a profound sense of dislocation. The 'brute' was teaching your daughter his simple philosophy.
"And what do you think, Violet?" you asked, the question leaving you in a whisper, utterly deviating from the script.
She looked down at her hands, and for a single, breathtaking moment, the air around her shimmered. It was there and gone, a heat haze of distortion. A perfect, nascent phasing field. Your daughter's power. Her mother's legacy.
"I think," she said softly, "that sometimes... not being seen at all is the strongest thing you can be."
The truth of it, the profound, heartbreaking wisdom from this girl who was both a stranger and the center of your universe, threatened to shatter you. You were a man who could pull asteroids from their orbits, and in that moment, you had never felt more powerless, or more in awe.
The hour was gone in a heartbeat. When the door opened and Briggs announced the end of the session, it felt like a limb being torn off.
Violet stood, giving you a small, polite nod. "Bye, Dr. Vance."
The name was a knife wound.
As she reached the door, she paused and glanced back, her brow furrowed slightly. "It's weird," she said. "You... you feel familiar."
Then she was gone.
You were left in the silent room, the ghost of her presence the only thing left in the air. It was the most beautiful and the most agonizing hour of your life. You had met your daughter. And she had walked away, calling you by another man's name. The first thread of a new design, infinitely more complex and dangerous than any suit, had been spun. And you were now irrevocably, perilously, entangled in it.
The return to your cell was a blur. The sterile, chilled air that had been your constant companion for fifteen years now felt alien, the silence a mockery of the storm raging inside you. The guardsā routine checks felt like distant events happening to someone else. You stood motionless in the center of the room until the lights in the corridor outside dimmed, signaling the facility's night cycle.
Only then did you move.
You did not go to your bed. You slid down the wall, your back against the cold, unyielding polymer, right where you had sat with your mother's ghostly presence on the other side. The same spot. A different kind of agony.
The controlled facade of Dr. Elias Vance crumbled into dust. The memory of her face, not in a photograph but living, breathing, filled your mind. The sound of her voice, so like her mother's in its cadence, echoed in the sterile silence. "You feel familiar."
A raw, choked sound escaped your lips. You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms as you fought against the tide. But the levee broke.
It started as a silent, body-wracking shudder, your shoulders trembling with the force of emotions you had suppressed for a decade and a half. Then came the tears, hot and relentless, tracking through the accumulated grime of a day spent pretending to be a stranger to your own child. You didn't sob; the grief was too deep, too profound for sound. It was a silent, desperate weeping that left you gasping for air, your chest heaving.
You saw it all again. The way she had picked at the thread on her skirtāa nervous habit her mother had. The flicker of intellectual curiosity in her eyes when she spoke of your design. The heartbreaking wisdom in her whispered confession: "Sometimes... not being seen at all is the strongest thing you can be."
And the final, casual evisceration: "Bye, Dr. Vance."
You were the most powerful gravitational manipulator on the planet, and you had never felt so utterly, completely helpless. You had been close enough to touch her, to smell the faint scent of her shampoo, and the chasm between you had never felt wider. You were a ghost in her life, a "familiar" feeling, a man with a borrowed name.
The gravitational field in your cell reacted to your shattered control. The desk, the chair, your discarded sketches, all lifted gently from the floor, orbiting your hunched form in a slow, mournful ballet. The light bent and warped, casting strange, undulating shadows on the walls. The very fabric of your prison wept with you.
You cried for the years stolen. You cried for the wife you lost to Syntro's cruelty. You cried for the little girl who thought a strong punch was the answer to everything. You cried for the father who had to hear his brilliance acknowledged by his daughter while wearing another man's face.
Eventually, the storm passed, leaving you hollowed out and exhausted. The floating objects settled back to the floor with a series of soft clicks and rustles. The room returned to its oppressive stillness. You didn't move from the floor. You curled onto your side, your cheek against the cold, polished surface, the ghost of her presence your only blanket.
Sleep, when it finally came, was not an escape. It was a fractured reel of images: Violet's face, Edna's sorrowful eyes, the impersonal gaze of Agent Briggs. And through it all, the echo of a name that was not yours.
You cried yourself to sleep that night, the silent, devastating tears of a father who had touched the sun only to be cast back into the deepest, coldest dark.
The image of you, curled and broken on the cold floor of your cell, was a stark painting of despair. But beyond the glass, in the dimly lit observation room, a very different scene was unfoldingāone you were never meant to witness.
Edna Mode stood not with the analysts, but in a separate, soundproofed chamber adjacent to the main observation deck. She had not, in fact, left the facility after her visit. She had been here the entire time, watching your "supervised" meeting with Violet through her own private feed. Her small hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides.
As Violet left the conference room, looking confused and a little unsettled, she was not escorted back to her parents. Instead, Agent Briggs gently guided her down a quiet corridor and into the chamber where Edna waited.
Violetās eyes widened. "Edna?" she whispered, recognition dawning. The reclusive, legendary designer was a frequent, if mysterious, presence in her life, always bringing incredible gifts and offering sharp, cryptic advice.
Edna dismissed Briggs with a sharp nod. The moment the door closed, her severe demeanor melted away. She knelt, ignoring the peril to her immaculate trousers, and took Violetās hands in her own.
"The man in there," Edna said, her voice low and urgent. "Dr. Vance. What did you feel?"
Violet, startled by the intensity, tried to pull back, but Ednaās grip was firm. "I... I don't know. He was weird. Sad." She looked down, the memory of the strange, familiar feeling unsettling her. "It was like... like when you hear a song you can't remember, but you know all the words. He felt... important."
Ednaās breath hitched. She looked over Violet's shoulder at the monitor showing your cell, where you were now sliding down the wall, the first tremors of your breakdown beginning. Her own heart was breaking in tandem.
"Listen to me, mein kind," Edna said, forcing Violet to meet her gaze. "The world is not what it seems. The stories you are told are often... convenient lies. That man," she gestured toward the monitor, her voice trembling with a passion Violet had never heard, "is one of the greatest minds of our age. His designs, his theories... they are the foundation upon which so much is built. Remember what you felt. Trust that feeling, not the name they gave him."
Back in the observation deck, Agent Briggs watched your cell's internal sensors. The gravimetric readings were spiking erratically, painting a picture of profound emotional distress. He didn't see a dangerous weapon losing control. He saw a man shattered. He keyed his comms.
"Subject's vitals are critical. Psychological collapse is imminent. The 'Vance' gambit has yielded the predicted data on their connection, but the cost is higher than projected." He listened for a moment to the voice on the other end, his jaw tightening. "Understood. Proceeding with Phase Two: the calculated risk. We'll give him a longer leash, dangle the possibility of more contact. A grieving, emotionally compromised subject is more pliable than a defiant one. And the girl... she's the perfect incentive."
He looked toward the chamber where Edna and Violet were speaking, a cold, strategic light in his eyes. "The mother is a variable, but a contained one. Her cooperation is guaranteed as long as we hold the son."
Inside the private chamber, Edna pulled Violet into a sudden, fierce hug. It was over almost as soon as it began, but the message was searingly clear.
"That feeling of importance, Violet," Edna whispered into her ear, her voice barely audible. "Hold onto it. It is the only real thing in this room full of ghosts."
As Violet was led away, thoroughly confused and emotionally stirred, Edna turned back to the monitor. She watched you finally succumb to sleep, your body curled in a fetal position on the floor. A single, perfect tear escaped, tracing a path through her powder before she viciously wiped it away.
She had played her part. She had fed the government's narrative to keep you alive, and she had planted a seed of truth in your daughter's heart. She was trapped in the middle, a master designer weaving a tapestry of lies and hope, knowing the final pattern could still end in tragedy.
You cried yourself to sleep, believing you were alone in your grief. You didn't know that your mother was watching, her own heart breaking, already moving the pieces on the board for the next, dangerous game. And you didn't know that your daughter was walking away, not with the simple confusion of a teenager, but with the first, faint glimmer of a truth that could either save you all or tear everything apart.
***
The Parr household, usually a bastion of controlled chaos, was frozen in a silence more absolute than any Violet had ever created with her force fields. It had been two days since the strange, unsettling meeting with "Dr. Vance." The feeling of himāthe profound, gravitational sadness, the way his intelligence seemed to hum in the air, the sheer, inexplicable familiarityāhad gnawed at her, refusing to be quieted.
She found them in the living room. Bob was attempting to fix a lamp, his massive hands fumbling with a delicate switch. Helen was folding laundry, her movements efficient, her face a mask of placid normalcy. The picture of domesticity. The picture of a lie.
Violet stood in the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Who is he?" she asked, her voice quiet but sharp as a shard of glass.
Helen looked up, a practiced, pleasant smile on her face. "Who, sweetie? Dash's new coach?"
"No." Violetās voice didn't rise, but it carried a new, chilling weight. "The man you made me talk to. Dr. Vance."
Bob put the lamp down with a soft thud. "He's a specialist, Vi. The government is... they're starting new programs for kids with... potential. We just thought it would be good toā"
"He's not a specialist," Violet interrupted, her words falling like stones. "He's a prisoner. I could feel it. The room was a cage. And he looked at me... he didn't look at me like a subject. He looked at me like..." She struggled for the words, Edna's whispered advice echoing in her mind. "Trust that feeling." "He looked at me like he was dying of thirst and I was a glass of water."
Helenās smile had vanished. She exchanged a swift, panicked glance with Bob. It was all the confirmation Violet needed.
"Who is he to me?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "And don't you dare say 'nobody'."
Bob took a step forward, his big hands held out placatingly. "Violet, honey, this is very complicated. There are things we've had to keep secret to protect youā"
"Protect me?" A bitter, hollow laugh escaped her. The air around her began to shimmer, a faint, violet-tinged haze of distortion. "Or protect yourselves? He knew about Mom's designs. The real ones. Not the stuff for the public. He talked about elegance. About scalpels, not sledgehammers." Her eyes, blazing with a hurt and betrayal so deep it was giving birth to a new kind of power, locked onto Helen. "He talks like you, Mom. But it's... it's purer."
Helen flinched as if struck.
"His name," Violet pressed, the force of her will making the lights in the room flicker. "His real name."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken. Bob looked at Helen, a world of shared history and painful decisions passing between them in a single glance. He gave a small, defeated nod.
Helen took a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping. The "Elastigirl" posture was gone, replaced by the weariness of a woman who had been carrying a terrible secret for far too long.
"His name," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "is Y/N Mode."
The name hung in the air, meaningless to Violet for a heartbeat. Then, the connection slammed into her with the force of a physical blow. Mode. Edna Mode. The brilliant, severe, loving woman who had always been a mysterious presence in her life. The woman who looked at her with an intensity that now, suddenly, made a devastating kind of sense.
"He's... Edna's..." Violet stammered.
"He is her son," Helen confirmed, her voice thick with grief. "And... he was there, at the very beginning. He fought in the war, before the Supers were public. His powers... they were deemed too dangerous. The government... they took him. To ensure Edna's cooperation."
The pieces were falling into a horrifying mosaic. The brilliant, sad man in the cage. The legendary designer. The secrets.
Violetās gaze turned inward, the final, most terrifying piece clicking into place. "And... my mother? My... real mother?"
Bobās face crumpled. He couldn't meet her eyes.
Helenās voice was raw with a pain that was not her own. "Her name was Lucia. She could phase through matter. She was... incredible. She and Y/N... they loved each other very much. She was lost. In the early battles against Syntro's prototypes."
The truth was a supernova, obliterating the world Violet thought she knew. The shyness, the feeling of being an outsider, the power to become invisible and create shieldsāit wasn't just a random mutation, it was true! Heros only inherited powers like their parents!. It was a legacy. A inheritance of genius and tragedy from a father and mother she never knew.
She looked at Bob and Helen, the people who had raised her, loved her, given her a name. But the foundation of that life had just been revealed as a carefully constructed lie.
The shimmering force field around her solidified with a sharp crack, a perfect, impenetrable dome of violet energy that sealed her off from them in the middle of their own living room. Inside, Violet Parr sank to her knees, not in sadness, but in a furious, silent storm of grief and revelation.
She wasn't just Violet Parr. She was Violet Mode. And her father was not a retired Strongman. He was a gravitational genius, locked in a cage, and she was the only one who knew he was telling the truth. The game had just changed, and she was no longer a pawn. She was a wild card.
***
The catalyst was a photograph. Not of Violet, but of her mother, your Lucia. An agent, careless during a file transfer, let a single, grainy image slip from a folder. It was her, suited up, phasing through a collapsing wall, a fierce, beautiful smile on her faceāa smile you hadn't seen in over sixteen years. On the back, a handwritten log: "Asset Lucia 'Phantom' Mode. Terminated by Syntro Unit 7. Collateral damage acceptable."
Collateral damage acceptable.
The five most devastating words ever written. They hadn't just killed her. They had written her off as an acceptable loss. The last thread of your restraint, already frayed by years of torment and the bittershell agony of seeing Violet, snapped.
Your cell had a weakness. Not in the polymer, not in the energy field, but in the gravity-based stabilizers that kept it anchored. For years, you had studied their frequency, their resonance. You had never attempted to manipulate them, because the cost of failure was too high. Now, the cost of inaction was higher.
The other "villain" was a man named Kage, who could manipulate shadows and darkness. You had rarely spoken. But you knew his rage mirrored your own. A single, shared glance in the exercise yard, a whisper woven into the hum of the ventilation system, and a pact was made.
The escape was not loud. It was silent, cold, and precise. During the night cycle, you placed your hands on the glass and reached out with your mind. You didn't try to break the stabilizers. You harmonized with them. You found their resonant frequency and then pushed, gently, subtly, increasing the gravitational pull in one, specific, microscopic flaw in the system.
There was no explosion. Just a high-pitched whine, and then a spiderweb of cracks appeared in the polymer, not from impact, but from the structure being twisted against itself from the inside out. It hissed open like an overripe fruit.
Kageās cell was next. His darkness slithered through the crack in your door, shorting out the electronics of his lock with a silent surge of corrupted energy.
Together, you walked out. There were no alarms. You simply bent the light around you, creating a bubble of perceptual invisibility, and warped gravity to muffle your footsteps into nothingness. You were two ghosts passing through a fortress that had believed itself impregnable.
The world outside was a shock of cold air and blinding freedom. You stood under the moonlight, the man who was once "Asset Gamma," the prisoner, the father. Now, you were something else.
Kage melted into the shadows, heading towards his own vengeance. You did not watch him go. Your purpose was singular.
You looked back at the facility, a monolith of your pain. You raised a hand. The ground beneath the outer wall groaned. Then, with a sound like the earth itself tearing, a fifty-foot section of reinforced concrete and steel wrenched itself free from its foundations, crumpling into a sphere of compressed rubble no larger than a car. You held it there, hovering in the air, a monument to your wrath.
The sirens began, finally.
You were no longer Y/N. You were no longer Dr. Vance. You were The Mad Child. And your goal was not just freedom. It was deconstruction.
You would tear down the entire edifice of their lies, brick by bureaucratic brick. You would find every agent, every analyst, every politician who had signed off on Lucia's "acceptable" death and your daughter's stolen childhood. You would show them the true meaning of collateral damage.
The sphere of rubble shot into the night sky, a dark moon of your own making. You let it hang there for a moment, a promise of the gravity to come, before turning your back and walking away, not into the shadows, but into a storm of your own creation. The loving father was buried under the rubble of that wall. All that remained was a force of nature, a black hole of vengeance, and you would not stop until the entire world felt the pull.
Y/N and Jamie āHomelanderā float in the air above the cityā¦
Jamie: so you fly away immediately after saving someone?
Y/N: well unless thereās someone who needs medical assistance. Just remember the motto
Jamie: itās not about the fame, itās about the people
Y/N kisses her cheek and takes her handā¦
Y/N: now someone like you deserves a heroās reward (winks)
The two fly off at super sonic speedsā¦
Request by @kratoswraithofmidgard
Could you do fem homelander x superman reader whose sorta her mentor siihowing her how to be an actual superhero and she's happy to be together with someone who she doesn't have to hold back for when hugging and during 'other activities'
Note: All the pictures here are not mine, I took them from Pinterest, reader here is a teenager, meaning she is approximately 15-16 years old, I used the translator to write the story and did not pay much attention to spelling mistakes.
Warnings: None , Some spelling mistakes
(Y/n) was sitting in the living room watching TV, flipping through channels boredly, until thunder struck the ground very close to her house and the electricity went out.
She frowned and looked out the window, it was the middle of the afternoon but the sky was dark and dark clouds covered the blue sky.
A cold wind rushed towards the house so she got up from the couch to close the window, but a bright white light caught her attention, she quickly closed the windows and put on her coat to quickly leave the house.
(Y/n) took a slow breath as she climbed the hill, the strange thing was still shining with different colors like a rainbow reflecting Light on the stones near it
The clouds gathered and the storm was getting stronger and stronger, lightning struck in the sky as if guiding her on her way towards the hill, she almost fell several times because of the rocks
(Y/n) gasped and her eyes widened, she felt as if time had stopped for her as she stared at a strangely shaped stone, a mixture of many colors that looked like an oval-shaped opal
The sky thundered loudly but (Y/n) was more focused on the stone, she did not hear the sound of the strong winds hitting her ears nor the loud sounds of thunder
All she could hear was her heartbeat and the sound of her breathing, she slowly extended her hands and moved the rocks away from the stone
The stone began to float on its own, and within moments the stone rose directly towards her forehead and merged with her skin
She was startled and tried to get it out, she screamed loudly and in pain and dug her nails into her skin to try to get it out and drops of blood splattered on her face and clothes
She quickly got up and stumbled in her walk and because Focusing on pulling the stone out of her forehead, she couldn't focus on her surroundings, slipping between the rocks and rolling down the hill for a short distance.
But she felt a terrible pain not only in her forehead but all over her body due to the fall, a small groan came out of her mouth.
For a moment, the pain disappeared and was replaced by something strange. She breathed heavily, and looked at her hands, which began to show strange tattoos. She began to hear many sounds overlapping together.
She put her hands on her ears, closed her eyes, and screamed.
Many whispers, cars, winds, people's voices from afar, footsteps and grass, insects and birds.
Many smells hit her nose, and she didn't dare to open her eyes until she felt like she was there for a very long time.
"(Y/...! "
"(Y/n)!! "
(Y/n) was startled and woke up quickly "Calm down! Calm down my dear!" She took a deep breath and looked around, her father sat on her bed rubbing her back
"Dad, there was... a light and... and a strange stone!" She tried to say some words but they came out broken and she didn't know how to describe what happened
āEverything is fine now, just calm down and tell me calmly.ā He hugged her tightly in his arms, his presence helping to calm her rapid heartbeat.
So here the chapter stops, and I don't know how her father will try to help her and discover the stone that stuck to her forehead, I wanted to show you my writing, is it good and should I continue with this story?
I was looking for a way for the reader to gain superpowers, so I came up with this idea. When I gain an idea or passion for this story, I will start writing it.
Anyone can take the idea and write it as a story, I don't mind, but please give me my rights.
but if you keep trying to talk to him, include him whatever
he will never stop talking to you
hes a great friend so an even better boyfriend
and heās hot asf
ned his ultimate wingman does absolutely nothing to actually help peter, so you definitely knew that he was crushing hard even before he started to try to ask you out
once you were dating he would plan the most romantic dates
he would hash them out with mj because obviously he needs them to be perfect
lets pretend for a minute that civil war didnāt happen
so peter and you are like interns and your also super heroes
peter didnāt know you were though before you told him
but tony knew so he hired you as intern the first time you walked into the lab
you both spend a lot of time in the compound
you especially because your home life isnāt great
the avengers are pretty protective over you
so imagine their surprise when you pick up the phone one day
like, āhey, babe,ā or something like that lol
theyre like āoooo a s/o????ā
youāre like how did you not know??? we havenāt been hiding it???
theyāre like who is it???
you just roll your eyes and leave
peter shows up at the compound the next day for a lab
the two of you go up and get snack from the kitchen
he backs you up against the counter and like
lifts you so that he can stand between your legs and make out with you
Sam comes in and flat out screams
he starts yelling about how you guys are just babies and heās blind
you guys sort of scoot your way out of the kitchen during his dramatics
at dinner everyone is looking at you and steve tries to give the talk
you and peter both recite WORD FOR WORD the captain america psa about sex ed and get the whole table laughing
Natasha comes up to you and grins, āheās a good one, that peter,ā she tells you.
you glance fondly over at him, talking animatedly to Steve about how star wars is so much better than star trek
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