What I find very interesting about Flambae, as a character, is the way he subtly subverts the expectations others have of him.
He's an asshole. He supports his friends. He pursues success so hard he's willing to cheat openly. He never sabotages anyone. He’s vengeful. He calls Mecha Man a hero regardless. He almost dies after being locked up in a sensory deprivation tank and never blames anybody. He’s confident. Trees make him insecure. He has no idea how to be kind to people. He likes helping others. He wanted to die as a villain. He wants to live as a hero. He likes who Flambae is. He never talks about Chad.
I think Flambae is exactly who he says he is, and exactly who he thinks he isn't.
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(writes something) god this sucks so bad. this is awful. i'm the worst writer ever. this is nothing. (rereads it a while after writing it) oh dude this is fire. i'm the god of writing. (writes something again) god this sucks so bad. th
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Flambae unlocks the ‘how to make Robert Robertson less pissed at you’ tool completely by accident.
He always does his best to reduce damage while on missions. At the end of the day, he’s a combat type, and there’s only so much you can do with literal fire.
But it’s going as well as it can be, thanks to Robert. And Flambae always prides himself with having the best dispatcher around.
With himself? Meh.
He can walk off a heat stroke. And dehydration. And lung damage. And more, probably.
Still doesn’t change the sharp glare and scathing rant Robert has for him the minute he steps into SDN.
And he does pay attention. Or tries.
There’s some leftover vanilla cream smudged on Robert’s chin, most likely acquired after another vending machine raid.
He laughs, soft, easy, hand wiping off the fluffy cream.
He doesn’t even notice how affection drunk he looks, with faint sunlight glazing gently over those eyes, until orange melts down to autumn gold.
Robert very much does.
“Bob-Bob,” And his voice. How it can go from aggravating to tickled by fondness. “I’m fucking sorry, okay? It’s not even THAT serious,—“
“You hit your head on a billboard.”
“Just a little!”
“You had a concussion, Chadwick.”
“Ugh, don’t use full names! You only do that when I’m REALLY deep in shit.”
He laughs, and laughs, and Robert should continue to be pissed, but it’s hard.
When those eyes are on him, watching him like the world starts and ends with him, it’s hard. “I’m sorry, Bob-Bob.”
Robert clenches his jaw and glares away.
“Robert,” and the name. His name. Smooth and pulsing worship. “Don’t be mad. That’s my job.”
“Fine! Fine. No medical. My place. You’re getting checked out.”
Robert is a weak, weak man, and he’s so thankful Flambae is too oblivious to notice.
It is IMPERATIVE that Flambae has no idea about it.
He’s really out here staring at Robert with the warmest eyes in the world, not because he wants Robert to stop being mad at him, but because when Robert exists, then he’s going to stare:
Ofc Robert is gonna scold him harder when they go to his place. And Robert is SO bothered because Chad’s eyes keep distracting him.
They look so content and the lines around Flambae’s temples grin.
The absolute WORST move? When Flambae keeps reaching down to kiss at his face. Lips laughing on freckles and amused and arms hugging Robert’s shoulders to him. “Come on, Bob-Bob—“
Flambae unlocks the ‘how to make Robert Robertson less pissed at you’ tool completely by accident.
He always does his best to reduce damage while on missions. At the end of the day, he’s a combat type, and there’s only so much you can do with literal fire.
But it’s going as well as it can be, thanks to Robert. And Flambae always prides himself with having the best dispatcher around.
With himself? Meh.
He can walk off a heat stroke. And dehydration. And lung damage. And more, probably.
Still doesn’t change the sharp glare and scathing rant Robert has for him the minute he steps into SDN.
And he does pay attention. Or tries.
There’s some leftover vanilla cream smudged on Robert’s chin, most likely acquired after another vending machine raid.
He laughs, soft, easy, hand wiping off the fluffy cream.
He doesn’t even notice how affection drunk he looks, with faint sunlight glazing gently over those eyes, until orange melts down to autumn gold.
Robert very much does.
“Bob-Bob,” And his voice. How it can go from aggravating to tickled by fondness. “I’m fucking sorry, okay? It’s not even THAT serious,—“
“You hit your head on a billboard.”
“Just a little!”
“You had a concussion, Chadwick.”
“Ugh, don’t use full names! You only do that when I’m REALLY deep in shit.”
He laughs, and laughs, and Robert should continue to be pissed, but it’s hard.
When those eyes are on him, watching him like the world starts and ends with him, it’s hard. “I’m sorry, Bob-Bob.”
Robert clenches his jaw and glares away.
“Robert,” and the name. His name. Smooth and pulsing worship. “Don’t be mad. That’s my job.”
“Fine! Fine. No medical. My place. You’re getting checked out.”
Robert is a weak, weak man, and he’s so thankful Flambae is too oblivious to notice.
Kinda obsessed with the idea of Robert’s coma extending, therefore, completely shifting the timeline.
He does wake up, eventually.
With time rotting in his bones and a filmsy roll of ductape and just his father’s repair manual. But Mecha Man rises again.
There is no astral pulse. Just a very impressive imitation Chase maybe, possibly, stole for him from SDN’s best scientist.
But the suit falls more. Falls harder.
And it’s common knowledge that when a hero falls in Torrance, Torrance always looks away.
Flambae, in his infinite stupidity, does not.
He stands above that armor, a blue myth of steel and ruin, six feet deep in a crater, in some random arid patch of land just shy of Torrance.
He should just keep walking.
He stomps away, at first. Fists curling with a vengeance he has no right to have, with wrath in his throat and the past laughing behind him.
And he comes back.
Then stomps off again.
Then paces.
Then screams for a whole 5 minutes. At nothing and everything.
And Mecha Man has the nerve to sound amused, even through 3 broken ribs and more, probably.
“You cooking something? I smell BBQ. But maybe that’s just your cologne. You have cologne BBQ? Or is it BBQ cologne? Excuse the concussion.”
“Play dead until I get you out of here,” he snarls. And like a fucking idiot, he slides down, palming at the hatch while spitting profanities through his teeth.
“Right, okay. So, If you direct your pretty eyes to the right, there’s an emergency button next to—“
Before he even comprehends it, Flambae grinds his teeth and lifts him. Armor and all.
“…Or that, yeah. That works, too.”
The ride is oddly quiet. Strangely, the raw scrap of his suit against the concrete is oddly comforting, as he tries keeping his eyes open.
“I could fucking take you to a fucking doctor, that knows what the fuck they’re doing, instead of my house. Because I was supposed to be done with the hero thing.”
“Uh, I left my healthcare in the other super suit, so. That’s not happening.” He quips. There is no laugh. “And, uh. I was right. Back then and right now.”
“About the fuck what?”
“You’re a really shitty villain.”
There is no response to that.
But Flambae also stays up at 4 in the morning, trying to close stitches with clips of Grey’s Anatomy next to him.
And Robert might have solved his roommate problem.
Flambae makes a stitch extra tight, which Robert snorts at.
They’re clumsily tied, mostly from inexperience than outright vengeance. Robert gets the difference.
Flambae’s hands are dry.
White creases and small branch-like cracks all over tanned skin.
He catches a faint hint of oil, both the mechanic and cooking kind. Pepper and smoked cinnamon and sweet smoke.
When they trace over his pulse, the ugly swell of his fractured femur, the throbbing burn in his lungs, they don’t feel bad. The feel careful.
“So. You’re fighting the same fucking Transformers wannabe motherfuckers like last time, ” he murmured. He could cut the world in two, with a voice like that. “With no back up.”
“Wow. You keep up fast.”
“It’s not fucking funny.”
Flambae laughs and the air tastes like charcoal.
“After your ass kissed concrete the first time. They spread too fast, and too much, and my program had to close. Just to barely keep up. A year. That’s how long we lasted.”
“…And what are you now?”
“Apparently, a goddam nurse for the idiot who’s gonna punt these dumbfucks into the ground.”
Robert snorts. “You know, for someone who claims to hate me so much, you’re betting a lot on me.”
“Bitch, I know,” Flambae seriously nods.
And Robert never knew what to do, really when Flambae’s eyes stare at him directly.
“When I was in Supermax, and you fell on the news? Live? The whole fucking cafeteria, filled with villains you busted, or wanted to bust YOU? They celebrated.”
“ That’s reassuring.”
“I didn’t.”
For that, Robert has no comeback.
“Because I knew how fucked we were. Me, my family, Torrance, — everything. Because as much as I…” Robert’s bones tighten. “Feel about you? When you were up there? You were the goddam best. And you’ll be the best again.”
“…Sure. No pressure or anything.”
It means something.
It floods his throat with doubt, it makes his teeth sharp, but it means something.
And Flambae gets up, and washes his hands, and slaughters some vegetables for something that smells amazing.
“You have any other place to go? Any other?”
“Not unless I wanna put people in danger. Which, I don’t think I’d have to worry about with you. We could work together. Make a plan.”
“Me?! No. Absolutely not. I’m done with the hero bullshit, and the villain bullshit, you hear?!” he exclaims, “right now, my only fucking job is fixing busted tires, oil changes, and broken windshields. “
“And helping me recover. Apparently.” A snort. At least that. “I don’t think you’re done. Not unless I am.”
“Oh, yeah, because I’m such a fucking well of goodness—“
“Because it follows you,” he interjects, softer than he thought was possible. “The hero thing. It stalks you for the rest of your life. And you try to trick it. Hide from it. it doesn’t work. Trust me, I tried.”
And Flambae doesn’t have anything to say to him, either.
“…Why did you pick it up? The hero thing?”
“Because I’m fucking good at it. “ it’s spoken, but not very loud. Not as clear as the next part. “…And my father said I could.”
“Yeah?”
Flambae gives a brisk nod, and turns away, and Robert counts the three moles on his arm.
“He wasted his whole life trying to save mine. I don’t want him to bury me like that.”
Truly, there’s not a lot Robert can say to that. He wants to. But nothing quite fits the enormity between them.
Flambae speaks up again, no room for debate. “You stay until you recover. Then you go to Blazer. And when you’re about to strike Shroud down? You tell him Chad says fuck you.”
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Kinda obsessed with the idea of Robert’s coma extending, therefore, completely shifting the timeline.
He does wake up, eventually.
With time rotting in his bones and a filmsy roll of ductape and just his father’s repair manual. But Mecha Man rises again.
There is no astral pulse. Just a very impressive imitation Chase maybe, possibly, stole for him from SDN’s best scientist.
But the suit falls more. Falls harder.
And it’s common knowledge that when a hero falls in Torrance, Torrance always looks away.
Flambae, in his infinite stupidity, does not.
He stands above that armor, a blue myth of steel and ruin, six feet deep in a crater, in some random arid patch of land just shy of Torrance.
He should just keep walking.
He stomps away, at first. Fists curling with a vengeance he has no right to have, with wrath in his throat and the past laughing behind him.
And he comes back.
Then stomps off again.
Then paces.
Then screams for a whole 5 minutes. At nothing and everything.
And Mecha Man has the nerve to sound amused, even through 3 broken ribs and more, probably.
“You cooking something? I smell BBQ. But maybe that’s just your cologne. You have cologne BBQ? Or is it BBQ cologne? Excuse the concussion.”
“Play dead until I get you out of here,” he snarls. And like a fucking idiot, he slides down, palming at the hatch while spitting profanities through his teeth.
“Right, okay. So, If you direct your pretty eyes to the right, there’s an emergency button next to—“
Before he even comprehends it, Flambae grinds his teeth and lifts him. Armor and all.
“…Or that, yeah. That works, too.”
The ride is oddly quiet. Strangely, the raw scrap of his suit against the concrete is oddly comforting, as he tries keeping his eyes open.
“I could fucking take you to a fucking doctor, that knows what the fuck they’re doing, instead of my house. Because I was supposed to be done with the hero thing.”
“Uh, I left my healthcare in the other super suit, so. That’s not happening.” He quips. There is no laugh. “And, uh. I was right. Back then and right now.”
“About the fuck what?”
“You’re a really shitty villain.”
There is no response to that.
But Flambae also stays up at 4 in the morning, trying to close stitches with clips of Grey’s Anatomy next to him.
And Robert might have solved his roommate problem.
Most people draw him scowling or with a rbf, but your Flambae is always smiling from ear to ear and his eyes.... Ough you draw him with such soft and kind eyesss
I need to grind up all your Flambae art and do a line of it, eating your art for breakfast lunch and dinner is not enough
AWW TY :((( honestly, i love all Flambae art, but him being happy is my favourite thing lol
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Hi this might be weird but I really really like the way you draw flambae, especially with the welding gloves + mask, he's very dashing. You make him look so joyful and full of life.
Hiii anon, not weird at all!! Ty so much 😭 happy Flambae is my favorite Flambae to draw lol
