#jack-jack

Like, are powers a dominant or submissive gene and the kids just got lucky that both parents were supers?

Are they recessive or controlled?

Does just one parent need it?

And that leads to the question, whats like the composition of supers? Are the powers part of the dna?

Is it a mutation or is like a evolved version of past survival instincts?(following the evolution theory, bare with me)

Or are the powers they're own strand of DNA that gets coded with another specific section of DNA? Like a strand of lasers gets intertwined with the strand for eyes

If it is a mutation, how did it fare in life?

Keep in mind the movie was set in the 60s

So discrimination and God as a major religon(no discrimination against any other religion, just trying to figure out shit, sorry) we're supers seen as blessings from God or cursed people from hell?

There was a post a while back saying thaf Clark could be a normal person with powers since powers were a common thing in the dc universe which leads me thinking, because of the relocation project, what happens if someone like a child(dash) found out they had powers at a public setting?

Like I get why Dash couldn't do much cause his parents were famous supers and their need for secrecy. But what about children with non-super parents? Were they allowed freedom?

Were the common people allowed to have powers without the shackles of supers life? Or were they shamed?

Besides that, what's the current lore on the Incredibles? I hear so much about gamma, nimble, and gazer but I don't know who and what is what, and I would much appreciate if someone could link an explanation or provide one themselves

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. You’d 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 hadn’t 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.

“You okay, Captain?” you asked softly.

He gave you that small smile again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m running out of sitters, (Y/N). Every time I think I’ve found one, they quit. Three kids… alone… It’s too much.”

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.

“I could help. At least until you find someone permanent.”

For the first time in weeks, his shoulders lifted, just slightly. Relief. “You’d do that?”

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 children—energetic, sharp-eyed, each carrying little pieces of their parents—took to you faster than you expected. They clung to you, laughed with you, and soon began asking when you’d be back.

Hans noticed.

At first, he only looked grateful. You’d catch him watching from the kitchen doorway, still in his crisp pilot’s 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 you’d be there when he was home.

You told yourself he was just lonely. A widower, a father—anyone 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 “just making sure you got home safe.”

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.

“Thank you again, (Y/N),” he said, his voice low, warm, almost too warm. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“It’s no problem,” you murmured, gathering your bag. “But I should head out now. Early flight tomorrow.”

You moved toward the door—only to freeze.

A pale hand slapped against the frame, long fingers stretching unnaturally, blocking your exit. You blinked, your breath catching. His arm had elongated—rubbery, 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.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” he murmured, his voice a velvet trap. “But I can’t let you walk away. Not now. Not when you’re the only one who makes me feel alive again.”

Your heart pounded. Supers were banned. Powers forbidden. This—this was dangerous.

“Hans—” you stammered, backing up. “This isn’t—this isn’t right. Let me go.”

He pressed a finger to his lips, the rubbery stretch of his arm curling around the doorframe like a cage. “Shh… don’t be frightened. I’d never hurt you. Never. You’re mine, (Y/N). My kids love you. You belong here—with us. With me.”

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.

“Don’t fight me. Please. I’ve lost enough already. I won’t lose you too.”

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 realized—you weren’t 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 nightmares—his 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 “our” bedroom with a casual cruelty that made bile rise in your throat.

“(Y/N), don’t cry.” His voice was soft, unbearably soft, like a lullaby sung by someone intent on keeping you asleep. A long, pale hand unfolded and moved—slow, deliberate—so that his fingers rested against your jaw. They were warm. Too warm. You didn’t pull away because you couldn’t; the elastic of his arm had already formed a gentle cage around your shoulders, anchoring you to the bed.

“You shouldn’t be scared of me,” he murmured. “You know I’d never hurt you. Not you. Barb—she didn’t understand that. She thought she could be a hero and a mother and keep everything the same.” His mouth twisted. “She wanted to relive the glory days. She wanted… to be admired again. And she paid for it.”

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. You’d heard pieces before—rumors, half-told tragedies on layovers—but hearing the full sentence from Hans’s mouth struck a rhythm of grief and accusation you hadn’t prepared for.

“He chased her,” Hans said, and there was a quiet, terrible finality in how he said it, as if every syllable closed a shutter. “He killed her because she chose the wrong kind of attention. She was selfish, (Y/N). She—” He swallowed. For a breath it seemed like he might break; for the next breath he hardened. “I never forgave her for thinking she could have both. For not seeing what mattered.”

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. “Hans—this isn’t the way. You can’t—”

“Can’t?” He laughed, a sound that crawled under your skin. “He’s dead. Syndrome’s dead. There’s no one left to take away what i have, who i have” The laugh faded and his face softened, mercilessly. “There’s only me. And the children. They need a mother. Someone steady. Someone kind. Someone who doesn’t make the same mistakes.”

His arms tightened—not 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 through—how carefully he had rearranged your options until there were none.

“You always were so kind,” he said, as if reciting a prayer. His other hand threaded through your hair, coaxing your face up to meet his. “You always gave and gave.” He paused, eyes searching your face, cataloging. “That’s why you’ll understand. You’ll see how perfect this could be. The kids will love you. They’ll call you ‘mom’ before you know it.”

Violet, he said, and something in his tone changed—softened, narrowed, as if he were running a hand over a small, jagged thing until it smoothed. “Violet will need… some time. Teenagers are stubborn. She loved her mother very much. She’ll be the hardest to win over. But that’s okay—she’s smart. She’ll understand when she sees how well you fit.” He smiled then, too broad for the moment. “Dash will come around quicker. He’s loud, he likes heroes in his own way—he just likes people who make him laugh. Jack-Jack… Jack-Jack will love you because he always loves whoever feeds him.”

You felt your stomach twist. Names, examples, plans—each 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 mother’s roast. It was domestic trivia spoken like a treaty, like a script he had rehearsed until the words could hold weight.

“You understand, right?” he asked, his tone suddenly tilted toward supplication. “You’ve always been the kind of person who helps. You know what it’s like to stand alone. You know how it feels to make things safe for others. You’ll do this for them. For me. For us.”

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. “Please… Hans. This—this is wrong. You can’t force someone to—”

He shushed you then, a motion that was gentle and absolute. “I’m not forcing you, love. I’m making a home. I’m protecting us from the cruelty out there. From the fools who idolize and then destroy.” His gaze dropped to your face, and for a sliver of a second it looked like grief again—raw and honest and human. “You’ll see. You’ll want this too, once you see how safe they are. Once you see me when I’m not pretending. I’m tired of pretending.”

The room pressed in. Through the wall you heard the faint, muffled tap of someone turning in their sleep—a child’s small shift—and 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 Violet’s folded shoulders in the kitchen when she’d refused dessert, of Dash’s bright, quick smile. Your love for the children had never been anything but real; that fact felt like both a tether and a trap.

Hans’s hands—arms—moved without pretense, sliding around you like an embrace that wasn’t an embrace, fingers splayed and supportive and impossible. “You’ll understand,” he said again, softer, with the fragile insistence of someone who had already decided you would. “You have always been kind and loving. That’s why you belong here. With me. With them.”

You thought of the uniform you’d been about to put on, the safety drills you practiced, the duty of care you’d learned to perform for strangers. You had never thought you’d 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 mouth—not tender, not wanting—more like a confirmation. “Don’t be frightened, (Y/N),” he whispered. “I love you. You’ll see.”

Your sob was silent. Your lungs felt too full. You pressed your forehead against the bedpost and tried to taste a plan—an 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 obsession—how it had stretched like rubber and wrapped around everything you owned—your 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 go—or rather, when he eased the pressure enough for you to move—your 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 it—gentle, possessive, a shape that said I have closed the orbit and there is no out yet. “Sleep,” he murmured. “Tomorrow we start making things perfect.”

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 door—anything that might someday be used in a different kind of plan.

In the small hours, you thought of the children and of Hans’s 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?

.

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Bonus :

The study smelled of dust and disuse, though underneath it all lingered something older—faded perfume, a faint tang of old leather, paper gone yellow with time. It had been Barb’s sanctuary once, a place where photographs, clippings, and souvenirs of another life clung stubbornly to the shelves. “Miss Incredible,” 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. Hans’s 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 Barb’s glory days, piece by piece, was being dismantled.

“Too much of her in here,” Hans said, voice mild, though there was something sharp beneath it. “Too much of what she wanted to be. Not what she should have been.” A framed photograph clattered face-down in a box. He did not pick it up.

You didn’t 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 hadn’t 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.

“You know…” His voice was a low purr. “Now that this room is empty, we could do something else with it.”

You stiffened, eyes fixed on the barren walls.

“A nursery,” Hans whispered, as if savoring the word. His arm slid slowly, serpent-like, around your waist. “The children would love another sibling. Don’t you think?”

Your breath caught.

“They’d love to help, I’m sure. Violet would act like she doesn’t care, but she’d hover, just to make sure everything’s perfect. Dash would want to build the crib himself—he’s impatient, but he means well. And Jack-Jack… well, he’d giggle at the new baby like nothing else.” His lips curved against your skin in a mockery of tenderness. “It would bring us all together. Make this house whole again.”

You couldn’t move, couldn’t answer. His arms coiled tighter, warm and unyielding.

“You’d be beautiful carrying our child,” Hans murmured, smiling with terrifying ease. “A mother in every way. Mine in every way. That’s how it should be. That’s how it will be.”

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 love—stretched and smothering—would shape everything.

You swallowed back a sob, but he heard it anyway. His hand brushed the tear from your cheek, tender, reverent.

“Don’t cry, love,” he said, pulling you closer, pressing you into the outline of the life he had drawn. “You’ll see. You’ll love them all. And they’ll love you.”

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.

Fanart of my fic ( link of my Ao3 on my masterpost)

His name is Jack-Jack, and he is quite obsessed with going outside. Sadly, he is but a puffball and would die or at the very least get flees if he wondered about.