Hello hello, this is Ananiel, i finally put my asks in order and i will start fufilling them finally, sorry for the long wait!
Until then i hope You all have a good day, and that You enjoy this story
I have seen that the incredibles are getting popular
And here for You i have a genderbend version of Helen Parr, inspired by an art i saw on the internet not so long ago
Might do other heroes too, feel free to ask If You want any (my next in the list would be mirage)
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The roar of jet engines had long since become background noise in your life. Youâd worked as a stewardess for nearly five years, long enough to memorize every safety speech, every regular passenger, every shortcut for calming down a nervous flyer. What you hadnât expected was to grow so familiar with the quiet, steady voice of Captain Hans Parr.
Hans was respected among the crew. A good pilot, professional, calm under pressure. But recently, something had changed in him. After the tragic loss of his wife, Barb, he carried exhaustion on his shoulders like a second uniform. You noticed the faint shadows under his eyes, the weariness in his posture, and the way his once-sharp jokes were replaced with tired half-smiles. He still got the plane from point A to B flawlessly, but when the day ended, he looked like a man on the verge of breaking.
One evening, after a particularly long flight, you found Hans lingering in the crew lounge, staring down at the lukewarm coffee in his hands.
âYou okay, Captain?â you asked softly.
He gave you that small smile again, but it didnât reach his eyes. âIâm running out of sitters, (Y/N). Every time I think Iâve found one, they quit. Three kids⌠alone⌠Itâs too much.â
You hesitated. Normally, this was the sort of thing coworkers only nodded sympathetically about before slipping out. But something about the quiet desperation in his tone stopped you.
âI could help. At least until you find someone permanent.â
For the first time in weeks, his shoulders lifted, just slightly. Relief. âYouâd do that?â
That was how you ended up in the Parr household, juggling homework, snacks, and the occasional tantrum after long shifts in the air. His three childrenâenergetic, sharp-eyed, each carrying little pieces of their parentsâtook to you faster than you expected. They clung to you, laughed with you, and soon began asking when youâd be back.
At first, he only looked grateful. Youâd catch him watching from the kitchen doorway, still in his crisp pilotâs uniform, eyes soft as he saw his children smile for the first time in weeks. But gratitude slowly melted into something heavier. His gaze lingered too long. He asked more personal questions. He began timing his nights off so that youâd be there when he was home.
You told yourself he was just lonely. A widower, a fatherâanyone would cling to a bit of light in such darkness.
But then came the small warnings.
The way his hand brushed yours too deliberately when you passed him a plate. The way he flinched when you mentioned an old boyfriend. The night you came back late from visiting family, and he was waiting on your porch with some flimsy excuse about âjust making sure you got home safe.â
Still, you ignored the gnawing unease. Until the night it finally broke.
You had just tucked the kids into bed, their little heads drooping against pillows, when Hans returned home. His tie was loosened, his uniform jacket hanging over one arm.
âThank you again, (Y/N),â he said, his voice low, warm, almost too warm. âI donât know what Iâd do without you.â
âItâs no problem,â you murmured, gathering your bag. âBut I should head out now. Early flight tomorrow.â
You moved toward the doorâonly to freeze.
A pale hand slapped against the frame, long fingers stretching unnaturally, blocking your exit. You blinked, your breath catching. His arm had elongatedârubbery, impossible, snaking across the hallway to cut you off.
Hans stepped closer, and in that moment, the mask of the tired, grieving father slipped. His eyes gleamed, unblinking, far too intense.
âI didnât want you to find out like this,â he murmured, his voice a velvet trap. âBut I canât let you walk away. Not now. Not when youâre the only one who makes me feel alive again.â
Your heart pounded. Supers were banned. Powers forbidden. Thisâthis was dangerous.
âHansââ you stammered, backing up. âThis isnâtâthis isnât right. Let me go.â
He pressed a finger to his lips, the rubbery stretch of his arm curling around the doorframe like a cage. âShh⌠donât be frightened. Iâd never hurt you. Never. Youâre mine, (Y/N). My kids love you. You belong hereâwith us. With me.â
You scrambled, darting toward the kitchen, but his arm lashed out again, twisting impossibly to slam the cupboard shut before you could reach the phone. His voice followed, calm, steady, terrifyingly sure.
âDonât fight me. Please. Iâve lost enough already. I wonât lose you too.â
The elastic limbs coiled slowly, deliberately, boxing you in as he stepped closer. His warmth, his intensity, his obsession pressed down like turbulence in your chest.
And in that moment, you realizedâyou werenât just helping a grieving father. You had stepped into the path of a man who would stretch himself across every boundary to keep you, whether you wanted it or not.
You didn't know how long you stood there, pressed against the bedroom wall, eyes wet and dry at once. The hallway light bled into the room, painting Hans in angles that belonged in nightmaresâhis uniform a crooked shadow, his face lit from below, his stretch-limbs folded and still like coiled ropes at his back. He called the room âourâ bedroom with a casual cruelty that made bile rise in your throat.
â(Y/N), donât cry.â His voice was soft, unbearably soft, like a lullaby sung by someone intent on keeping you asleep. A long, pale hand unfolded and movedâslow, deliberateâso that his fingers rested against your jaw. They were warm. Too warm. You didnât pull away because you couldnât; the elastic of his arm had already formed a gentle cage around your shoulders, anchoring you to the bed.
âYou shouldnât be scared of me,â he murmured. âYou know Iâd never hurt you. Not you. Barbâshe didnât understand that. She thought she could be a hero and a mother and keep everything the same.â His mouth twisted. âShe wanted to relive the glory days. She wanted⌠to be admired again. And she paid for it.â
You felt your body go cold. Syndrome. The name made the room tilt. Your hands found your mouth without you meaning to, stifling a sound. Youâd heard pieces beforeârumors, half-told tragedies on layoversâbut hearing the full sentence from Hansâs mouth struck a rhythm of grief and accusation you hadnât prepared for.
âHe chased her,â Hans said, and there was a quiet, terrible finality in how he said it, as if every syllable closed a shutter. âHe killed her because she chose the wrong kind of attention. She was selfish, (Y/N). Sheââ He swallowed. For a breath it seemed like he might break; for the next breath he hardened. âI never forgave her for thinking she could have both. For not seeing what mattered.â
Your tears came then, once, two quick drops that ran hot down your cheeks. You did not know whether they were for Barb or for Hans or for the three small faces you had just tucked in downstairs, trusting you. Your voice was small. âHansâthis isnât the way. You canâtââ
âCanât?â He laughed, a sound that crawled under your skin. âHeâs dead. Syndromeâs dead. Thereâs no one left to take away what i have, who i haveâ The laugh faded and his face softened, mercilessly. âThereâs only me. And the children. They need a mother. Someone steady. Someone kind. Someone who doesnât make the same mistakes.â
His arms tightenedânot in a painful way, but in a precise, inescapable pressure that had the same effect. The fabric of his sleeve stretched like leather and settled. You tried to move your hands to free yourself, to shove him, to call out, but the doorway was blocked, the phone on the dresser just beyond reach. You felt how carefully every potential exit had been thought throughâhow carefully he had rearranged your options until there were none.
âYou always were so kind,â he said, as if reciting a prayer. His other hand threaded through your hair, coaxing your face up to meet his. âYou always gave and gave.â He paused, eyes searching your face, cataloging. âThatâs why youâll understand. Youâll see how perfect this could be. The kids will love you. Theyâll call you âmomâ before you know it.â
Violet, he said, and something in his tone changedâsoftened, narrowed, as if he were running a hand over a small, jagged thing until it smoothed. âViolet will need⌠some time. Teenagers are stubborn. She loved her mother very much. Sheâll be the hardest to win over. But thatâs okayâsheâs smart. Sheâll understand when she sees how well you fit.â He smiled then, too broad for the moment. âDash will come around quicker. Heâs loud, he likes heroes in his own wayâhe just likes people who make him laugh. Jack-Jack⌠Jack-Jack will love you because he always loves whoever feeds him.â
You felt your stomach twist. Names, examples, plansâeach one a stitch in a cloth meant to wrap you tight. He rambled, as though the speech soothed him: fragments about routines, about who would take the kids to school, about uniforms and bedtime stories and the way the house would smell if you cooked his motherâs roast. It was domestic trivia spoken like a treaty, like a script he had rehearsed until the words could hold weight.
âYou understand, right?â he asked, his tone suddenly tilted toward supplication. âYouâve always been the kind of person who helps. You know what itâs like to stand alone. You know how it feels to make things safe for others. Youâll do this for them. For me. For us.â
Your hands trembled on the quilt. You tried to voice a protest, to demand he let you go, but the words in your throat came out as broken pleas. âPlease⌠Hans. Thisâthis is wrong. You canât force someone toââ
He shushed you then, a motion that was gentle and absolute. âIâm not forcing you, love. Iâm making a home. Iâm protecting us from the cruelty out there. From the fools who idolize and then destroy.â His gaze dropped to your face, and for a sliver of a second it looked like grief againâraw and honest and human. âYouâll see. Youâll want this too, once you see how safe they are. Once you see me when Iâm not pretending. Iâm tired of pretending.â
The room pressed in. Through the wall you heard the faint, muffled tap of someone turning in their sleepâa childâs small shiftâand the sound lodged like an arrow in your chest. You thought of the way the youngest had nearly fallen asleep in your arms that afternoon, of Violetâs folded shoulders in the kitchen when sheâd refused dessert, of Dashâs bright, quick smile. Your love for the children had never been anything but real; that fact felt like both a tether and a trap.
Hansâs handsâarmsâmoved without pretense, sliding around you like an embrace that wasnât an embrace, fingers splayed and supportive and impossible. âYouâll understand,â he said again, softer, with the fragile insistence of someone who had already decided you would. âYou have always been kind and loving. Thatâs why you belong here. With me. With them.â
You thought of the uniform youâd been about to put on, the safety drills you practiced, the duty of care youâd learned to perform for strangers. You had never thought youâd be the one who needed protection from a man whose grief had curdled into ownership.
You tried to wriggle free, to find a seam in his attention where you might slip out, but his arms tightened just enough to keep you still. Then, as if remembering something small and private, he kissed the corner of your mouthânot tender, not wantingâmore like a confirmation. âDonât be frightened, (Y/N),â he whispered. âI love you. Youâll see.â
Your sob was silent. Your lungs felt too full. You pressed your forehead against the bedpost and tried to taste a planâan exit, a lie, a moment when he would ease his hold and the door would open. The room held its breath with you, and Hans talked soft and steady about a future that did not include your consent.
Outside the bedroom, in their sleep, the house breathed on. Inside, in the dimness under the lamp, you understood the terrible shape of his obsessionâhow it had stretched like rubber and wrapped around everything you ownedâyour nights free between flights, the little kindnesses you gave without thinking, the careless compassion that had once been merely human and now, in his mouth, sounded like claim-staking.
When he finally let you goâor rather, when he eased the pressure enough for you to moveâyour body did not know which part of you it belonged to anymore. You sat at the edge of the bed, hands clasped together, eyes rimmed red, and watched him decide which next step to make. He propped himself against the headboard and began to outline a schedule in that same soft, relentless cadence: mornings, afternoons, who would take the kids to school, which rooms you might like to paint with Violet, which playground would be safe for Dash.
You listened because you needed to, because if the house was a map and he had the compass, then you had to learn the landmarks.
When he finished, he reached for your hand and squeezed itâgentle, possessive, a shape that said I have closed the orbit and there is no out yet. âSleep,â he murmured. âTomorrow we start making things perfect.â
You did not sleep. You watched the lamp as its light pooled small and helpless on the nightstand, and thought of the uniform folded in your bag downstairs, of the safety speech you had given a thousand times about staying calm, about taking action. You tried to memorize the weight of the bed, the sound of the house settling, the pattern of the floorboards by the back doorâanything that might someday be used in a different kind of plan.
In the small hours, you thought of the children and of Hansâs claim that they needed a mother; you wondered if protection could ever justify possession. You thought of Barb, of Syndrome, of a past that had come back for them in the worst possible way. And alone in the borrowed light of a room that felt suddenly not yours at all, you turned the silent question over and over in your mind: how do you become safe when the one holding you insists they are protecting you by containing you?
The study smelled of dust and disuse, though underneath it all lingered something olderâfaded perfume, a faint tang of old leather, paper gone yellow with time. It had been Barbâs sanctuary once, a place where photographs, clippings, and souvenirs of another life clung stubbornly to the shelves. âMiss Incredible,â the headlines had screamed. Costumes folded carefully in garment bags. Posters of her in mid-leap, smiling bright, capturing a moment of invincible joy.
You stood in the doorway, unwilling but unable to leave. Hansâs tall frame moved steadily inside the room, sleeves rolled up, muscles taut as he lifted boxes and stacked them neatly. His elastic reach made the task eerie; his arms stretched to the highest shelves, pulling down trophies and memorabilia with a mechanical precision that looked almost effortless.
The shrine to Barbâs glory days, piece by piece, was being dismantled.
âToo much of her in here,â Hans said, voice mild, though there was something sharp beneath it. âToo much of what she wanted to be. Not what she should have been.â A framed photograph clattered face-down in a box. He did not pick it up.
You didnât answer. Your hands clutched the edge of the doorway until your knuckles whitened.
Box by box, he carried her past out to the garage, whistling under his breath. The tune was light, almost boyish, like a man cleaning on a Sunday afternoon. But every time he returned, his eyes flicked to you. Making sure you hadnât moved. Making sure you were still there.
When the last shelf was bare, he dusted his hands together with a quiet satisfaction and crossed the room. The study felt hollow now, stripped of its meaning. Empty.
Hans came to stand beside you, too close, his warmth pressing into your arm. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his tone shifting playful, conspiratorial, as if sharing a harmless secret.
âYou knowâŚâ His voice was a low purr. âNow that this room is empty, we could do something else with it.â
You stiffened, eyes fixed on the barren walls.
âA nursery,â Hans whispered, as if savoring the word. His arm slid slowly, serpent-like, around your waist. âThe children would love another sibling. Donât you think?â
âTheyâd love to help, Iâm sure. Violet would act like she doesnât care, but sheâd hover, just to make sure everythingâs perfect. Dash would want to build the crib himselfâheâs impatient, but he means well. And Jack-Jack⌠well, heâd giggle at the new baby like nothing else.â His lips curved against your skin in a mockery of tenderness. âIt would bring us all together. Make this house whole again.â
You couldnât move, couldnât answer. His arms coiled tighter, warm and unyielding.
âYouâd be beautiful carrying our child,â Hans murmured, smiling with terrifying ease. âA mother in every way. Mine in every way. Thatâs how it should be. Thatâs how it will be.â
The empty study loomed around you, no longer a shrine to the past but a canvas for the future he had already written, brick by brick, in his mind. A future where your choice was nothing, and his loveâstretched and smotheringâwould shape everything.
You swallowed back a sob, but he heard it anyway. His hand brushed the tear from your cheek, tender, reverent.
âDonât cry, love,â he said, pulling you closer, pressing you into the outline of the life he had drawn. âYouâll see. Youâll love them all. And theyâll love you.â
The room stood silent, waiting.
And in that silence, you felt the weight of walls closing in, of boxes stacked in the garage, of futures carved without your voice. A nursery, he said. A nursery where a shrine had once stood.
And beside you, Hans ParrâElastic Guy, husband, widower, captorâsmiled as if he had already won.