bootyhunter | CALL ME OUT

[Roman’s pretty sure the bodyguard thing is a waste of time. It’s the business sector of Manhattan; when isn’t someone with a big scary mask threatening a storm coming to rain down the floods of retribution on the elites or some other anarcho-Marxist bullshit of the day to justify getting to play with their new toys of mass destruction?

That’s what he’d told Gerri, at least, but judging by the severe stare she gave him before continuing with giving him the time and place he’d be talking to a Superhero Dispatch Network rep, the current threats towards Waystar Royco were credible enough to make it a worthwhile investment. Since their legal proceedings lately have been a pressure cooker, Roman figures it’d make sense for some wannabe supervillain to try and kill or kidnap a member of the Roy family for clout.

Kendall had been weirdly psyched about the idea of needing extra super-security. Well, he does have kids that are smaller and easier-to-abduct, plus apparently a guy he knew from Harvard works at SDN. Personally, Roman doesn’t want to have to hang out with the man-bat his brother used to do coke with, so he’d chosen someone else.

Why Flambae specifically? He’s not fully sure. Maybe it’s because he's one of the closest to average-looking guys (aside from the flame patterns and giant slutty v-neck) and he doesn’t want to advertise to the entire city that he needs guarding. More likely, it’s because the blonde superwoman makes a face the moment Roman asks about Flambae that says “Really? That guy?” and tries to dissuade him. If that’s the clearly wrong choice, Roman’s gotta find out why. It’s not like it’s a choice that could get him injured or killed, right?

Greg’s flat spindly ass shuffling out of the office lets Roman know the new babysitter’s here, so he abandons whatever pointless C-suite-adjacent task he was up to in order to get a sense of what exactly is up with “Flambae”. Even sitting down, it’s obvious the guy has at least half a foot on Roman height-wise, and the bright orange on his supersuit burns from contrast with the understated color of the rest of the room.]

Hey, Flame Boy. Didn’t have time to change between here and the strip club–?

[Roman doesn’t expect to be interrupted from his deliberately dismissive greeting to establish some kind of hierarchy, stopping his stride to his desk to actually absorb who he’s talking to. His expression is not nearly as offended as the COO of a media conglomerate should be at being called a swagless bitch boy.]

Ohhhkay, yeah. That’s a no. Must’ve been a wardrobe department fuck-up.

[From the loud snort of air and Flambae’s joke about protection, Roman recognizes a set-up when he sees it, and his mouth curls into a light smirk that’s trying not to look quite as amused as he actually is while he takes a seat…directly on the edge of his desk rather than the other chair in the room.]

What, you have powers that tell you if someone’s been rawdogging in the office? Fuck. I feel safer already.

[Roman’s pretty sure he hasn’t jerked off in here that recently? Do superpowers come with semen senses too?]

[Flambae’s earpiece crackles with static over the intercom, the sounds ranging in a variety of pitches and tones, but Prism’s loud, “Bold words from a guy who looks whiter than all of the corpses on date line,” and Robert’s cheeky, “You gonna take that Flambae?” are the lines of dialogue he chooses to focus on in spite of the seething rage that he is not so carefully containing between tightly pursed lips.

He’s enraged, certainly, but the fire behind it isn’t as passionate as it was when Mecha Man couldn’t remember him at the bar. What the fuck is that about? He’ll file it away for later, or something.

This kind of petty bullying feels far more familiar, less personal. They are more akin to run of the mill homophobic drivel he hears from people who can’t hold their liquor or stomach a punch from someone who could easily burn them to a crisp. Oh, he is mad, but he sucks in those ridiculously chiseled cheekbones and chooses to suddenly examine his nailbeds with a glance of petty disdain-]

It just so happens-

[The (probably???) Latin accent of his feels especially strong here.]

That semen and suffering have a similar sort of stench. Goddamnitfuckingtinylittlebitchassmotherfucker-

[Aaand the rest of that supposedly under the breath cuss out continues in Spanish as he gets up and walks toward Roman in an extremely menacing fashion, then grabbing what Flambae assumes is a very expensive tie before yanking Roman closer.]

It is Flambae, [Pronounced in the French way,] and from here on out you will address me properly.

[He rubs his thumb over the bottom of the tie, which catches fire as he does. He keeps his hand in the middle of the flame as it simmers, clearly unaffected by the blaze.]

You got it?

[That is meant to sound like a threat.]

Edited 2025-12-13 02:28 (UTC)

[He gives a small closed-lip giggle, honestly amused at the string of curses that leave Flambae's mouth, something more entertaining than the utter no-sell that Dad's personal bodyguard is when Roman tries to fuck around.]

They do, huh? Romantic--

[There's not a lot of room to think of another colorful comment to do with sex fluids before Flambae yanks him closer by the tie, almost comically easily. Roman's hand grips the edge of the desk to avoid getting completely flung off of it. The proximity makes it easier to notice the gap in the taller man's teeth and that he only has eight fingers; they're scars from a different kind of world, far different from the imperfections on Roman's coworkers faces that are just from being kind of ugly.

Roman stares him down without a lot of resistance, as if non-verbally questioning if Flambae is actually going to hit him. Is the pride really worth losing a well-paying job within five minutes and costing the reputation of him and his entire branch? Is he ballsy or plain stupid enough to punch Roman in his own office?

Right. You're not about to be intimidated in your fucking territory. Get it under control, Romulus. Instinct has the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, but he schools his face best he can. Still, he does audibly hiss in a sharp breath when Flambae sets his tie on fire, since even the coldest bitch is gonna dread getting immolated. His nails dig into the wood of his desk slightly to counteract the genuine fear and sound like he's more mildly annoyed.]

Jesus, you know what "bodyguard" means, right? Might wanna double-check your briefing before you start fucking branding people, Flambae.

[Roman says the name as annoyingly accurately French as possible as a sort of malicious compliance.]

[Getting the name right does seem to calm Flambae down… A little.]

Ugh!

[Angrily, he rips the smoldering portion of the tie right off, crushing it into slowly smoking ashes.]

I do not like the briefings. Blazer always puts a butt-load of bullshit in there that we don’t even fucking need to know!

[Here, Flambae presses a button on the intercom.]

Don’t tell her I said that.

[He focuses his attention right back to Roman, his bully instincts flickering back, although he takes pause when he notices the subtle signs of fear, like the marks left on the top of the desk.

He does not outwardly remark on it, even though the now obvious fear makes him feel a tad guilty. What strikes him as odd is that Roman neither snivels in fright nor fights back directly. Flambae is not entirely sure what to make of that, even if it is a detail he will take care to remember.]

H'ooooh, wow! Oof, yikes.

[He should really be more respectful, but honestly, he’s trying to see how much he can get away with. Although it initially seems like he's gearing up for an apology, he gets right back to insulting his supposedly """precious""" cargo. Person of interest? Whatever, security details are only fun if the fight is a challenge or the asset is cute.]

You could really use a manicure.

[And then, with all the audacity he can muster, he taps one of Roman’s knuckles with a finger from the hand that has all of them.]

Have you ever gotten one? That shit fucking slaps, bro.

[He does a little circle around the signifcantly smaller man, surveying him… Or rather, pinpointing all his weaknesses. Good grief, he might as well be walking around a chihuahua made of jello with a very big trust fund.]

Do not worry, Sicily-man.

[Wrong city???? Don’t speak to him like you almost didn’t set him on fire… ]

I will keep you far from the clutches of criminals! But it is you who constantly gets himself into trouble, yes?

Edited 2025-12-13 17:17 (UTC)

[Well, damn, there goes that tie. And one of the days he decided to bother to put one on, too. Roman clicks his tongue with mild annoyance at the smoldered aftermath, pulling on the knot of the tie to undo it while he continues the conversation like he wasn't nearly lit on fire.]

Blazer--ohhh, the blonde chick who told me not to hire you. Probably shouldn't tell you that your boss called you a hothead either. Isn't that workplace discrimination for you super types?

[He doesn't actually know or care all that much, really? Not his thing to get potentially sued for. Plus, Roman's enjoying just how unprofessionally Flambae carries himself and is curious just how willing to be sloppy the guy is, given he's already willing to manhandle his charge before the whole thing even started.]

No? Don't want some stranger lubing up my hands with imported self-care chemicals. Also, you know, need the claws for all the fuckin' big scary bad guys breaking into the office on the daily.

[He curls and uncurls his fingers when he holds up his hand like a non-committal cat. Roman's pretty sure he doesn't see any grit under his nails from earlier, so that shouldn't be a lasting mark on his desk. It better not be, at least, because what kind of cheap-ass desk damages so easy.]

Aw, did Blazer collect all my escapades in her little dossier? I've never been stalked by anyone sexy before.
Mustache-twirly losers call in threats towards Dad and the rest of us all the fucking time, though. Most of them don't go further than that or an Antifa piss milkshake. You got the power to melt those out of the air?

[Here, he shakes his head, actually looking completely unphased at the first part regarding Blazer's hotheaded comment, also that's a lot of words Roman (THAT WILL BE ADDRESSED SOON)-]

Eh, ah, no... That's because I can...? Mmmmm, literally, how do you say- Well, fuck! Maybe I should just show you-

Edited 2025-12-14 07:36 (UTC)

[And in the blink of an eye, his whole head lights on fire.

The heat that the flames radiate is sweltering.]

Like so, you see?

[He shrugs, gesturing both hands to either side. They are not on fire! He has not gone full human torch mode just yet, this is all primarily for demonstration.]

Edited 2025-12-14 07:37 (UTC)

[also he is ignoring all the blonde blazer is sexy comments

as a gay man do you know the insane shit he has to sit through hearing on a daily basis relating not even the tiniest bit to that insane bullshit]

[His head returns to normal as he considers the next question, the fire extinguishing. Nothing about his face or outfit have been harmed, although his skin is smoking just a little.]

Oh, fuck yeah, I can melt a few milkshakes.

Piss is super fucking flammable!

[You know what? Roman left that incredibly on-the-nose sight gag wide open for the taking. Given he was a wrist flick away from becoming a five-foot-six wicker man earlier, the display of power doesn’t surprise him even is it is, in fact, hot in the literal sense.]

Ohhh, I get it now. It was an inside joke and a warning that you’re a dick. Utilitarian insult.

[Roman hops off of the desk back to solid ground and walks around the chair while he keeps talking, as if he needs the extra bit of stimulation to focus.]

So’s the sexpot flamethrower costume the only thing that doesn’t catch fire or do you have flame-retardant normie clothes? Because the idea’s not having an orange beacon leading people to one of the guys they wanna fucking stab.

[The comment about being a dick earns Roman another steely glare. Good thing Flambae can’t set things on fire with his mind! Also because, wow, considering his lack of a functioning one… That would be way more inefficient.

The comment about the costume being sexpot-y does lighten up his expression, however. That’s right! It is sexy.

Flambae takes a seat again and leans back. Is he putting his feet up on the other side of the chair? What is this posture. He watches Roman hop down, amused. What a small, chicken-like man.]

The suit is the only thing in my closet that does not burn.

[He snorts.]

That and a few pairs of underwear, maybe? I am not sure, actually…

[He knows he left at least one of those at an ex boyfriend’s.]

It is hard to find materials that can withstand my power, you see.

[why does he sound so gloaty

disgusting]

But I can wear whatever.

[His ass is out in WeHo every weekend anyway…]

So long as it’s not hideous, like those fugly shoes of yours.

Edited 2025-12-15 15:28 (UTC)

[Roman rests his hands on the arm of the other chair and quirks up his eyebrows in response to that glare, because hey, Flambae is a dick. Then again, so's Roman. Look at them, just a couple of dicks hanging out.]

Well, not legally allowed to control whatever briefs or jockstrap you've got on under there, and pretty sure if figurative shit hits the fan everybody's gonna be too freaked out by the supervillain attack to notice if your flaming cock and balls are out? So whatever, just wear your best "civvie business fuck" costume.

[Roman doesn't bother to give the black dress shoes he's wearing a once-over before rolling his eyes at the insult.]

Okay, so somebody made you the fucking prime minister of fashion? Basic bitch shoes are just dress code now. Blame fucking Greg out there for sucking all the good taste out of the building.

[The freakishly tall cousin himself seems to have been looking through the windowed door for an unknown amount of time, and waves awkwardly when he notices he's being stared at.]

[Oh.

Every suit Flambae owns has a titty window of some variety, and his collared shirts are more for boozy brunches or gay pool parties than business. The man has never worked a corporate job in his life- Not before SDN at least.]

I don’t have-

[Most of his clothes are thrifted or heavily altered by his own doing with a needle and thread. Being such an impossibly large man with those broad shoulders and tiny waist, it has always been easier to simply fix things up at home, and he’s always had a knack for that creatively anyway.

He’s relieved to circumvent the conversation to bullying.]

Ah.

The tall child who looks like he has yet to lose his virginity.

[He looks directly at Greg peering through the glass. Flambae’s gaze is unwavering.]

Yes.

He was being very annoying and babbling at me around the door. Also, he was asking me about girls or some shit…

[He has done everything in his power to look as gay as possible so these conversations never happen 😭]

His head must be as empty as his pockets. Where did he get his cell, Fisher-fucking-Price?

Edited 2025-12-16 08:44 (UTC)

What? I’m sure you can look like a normal guy who didn’t get plucked outta jail to rescue kittens and stop terrorists. Don’t tell me you cut tit windows into everything you own.

[Most people aren’t going to show up in titty windows on account of “most of these men are old prunes with saggy tits and at least presenting straight”. Something Flambae’s clearly not familiar with from how annoyed he is that Greg would assume he’s straight.

Which to be fair: holy shit, is Greg fucking stupid? The absurdity makes Roman attempt to cover a smile given the orphaned giraffe of a man is still staring and him assuming the worst about whatever conversation he and Flambae are having about him.]

His dad left his mom to go have gay Canadian orgies or something. Pretty sure it broke his brain in all those departments.

[Roman makes a swatting motion at his cousin while mouthing “fuck off” before continuing.]

Fucking tragic. Poor baby Greg-Egg.

[Flambae snickers. At least Roman didn’t say puppies- He’s not a big animal person overall, even if he doesn’t hate them.

But it should be noted that he strongly prefers cats.]

If anybody ever dares to tell me that I look like a fucking normie-

[The last word is practically spat out, laced with disgust.]

I’m torching them in two seconds.

[He himself looks over at Greg, who… Is he waving? Flambae will flip him off with the hand with three fingers.]

I take it he is your baby cousin or something?

[It’s probably not helpful that his phone background involves a few of his attractive female teammates draped all over his manspreading ass. What, Prism and Malevola like to use him as furniture, he’s warm! And they’re good looking, so they make him look good.

He’s reclaiming the manspread for the gays. Homosexuals can be douchebags too, you know.

Flambae voice: I can take up space. I will take up all of the space… And spaces… That are indeed available…

For the community. But mostly for me.]

It’s fine, whatever! I’ll wear your stupid fucking suit.

It better be expensive, or I’m setting what’s left of your hair on fire.

[He snorts. Was that a receding hairline drag, shady…]

I don’t care.

[Poor Greg. As soon as he is acknowledged, he is forgotten.]

Nobody’s bullshit publicist is going to peg me as your date?

[He is not wanting to be dragged on Twitter for that…]

Half of these broadcast news money fucks think that's a non-metahuman slur.

[Roman half wants to ask if there are secret slurs people with powers use for people without them and if he can use said slurs (note: don't let him know). Thankfully, the sight of Greg's face when he gets flipped off is distracting enough. Poor Greg. Roman doesn't actually care about his gay dad either.]

Yep, one of those family hires once removed. Just tossed him at the news department and now he's our freakishly tall overpaid intern or whatever he fucking does over there. Hiding dead bodies, maybe.

[Roman, that is not a joke a guy threatened by supervillains should make.

He turns around while talking so that he can sit directly on the armrest of the chair. This is now a "sit on the armrest" conversation, apparently.]

What? Please, nobody's gonna peg you there. Aren't you pitching on the other team, anyway? Or whatever you call it. Baseball's the American euphemism for gay sex.

[Roman scoffs a tiny bit before continuing.]

I'm like drowning in pussy far as anybody's hidden camera is concerned, anyway. You've got nothing to worry about.

[He then pulls out his phone and opens up a few tabs with menswear on them.]

But I'll find something employee-expensive and not sugar-baby-expensive. Right in front of you so you can't threaten to wax my hairline if you fucking hate it.

That is not true.

[Neither the drowning in pussy part nor the gay euphemism bit, but he will only address the second thing.]

The American euphemism for gay sex is the Halftime Show.

[This is the most serious he has sounded all evening.]

At the fucking SuperBowl?

[There's a curious pause here. Must he elaborate? God, yeah, this guy is like. Giving Gay Republican vibes (son of, descended from)-]

It's a little too short despite being so fabulous, it's sandwiched between a bunch of bullshit that's marketed to pigheaded straight people, and yet it is one of the gayest events of the year.

[The next part is whispered:]

That's, like, the most ass I've ever seen on television all at once.

The most relevant to me, anyway.

Edited 2025-12-30 05:39 (UTC)

[Again because the thought of this is so preposterous-]

You really think it's fucking baseball?!

[Roman is about to make a snarky comment about what Flambae might be assuming about either what kind of genitals he's drowning in or how often, but the actual issue he takes with it does surprise him. ]

Yeah, I know what that is. It's all dudes throwing balls.

[Roman lets Flambae explain the point, partly because yeah, it's kind of funny how serious he is about this point. He nods sagely at the explanation, slightly exaggerated in his seriousness but appearing to consider the point. Lady Gaga and Beyonce aren't exactly marketed to straight men, after all. He speaks with that same semi-seriousness to weigh in.]

Mm, yes, very good point. Lot more borderline dry-humping and physical contact in American football too. The European one has the balls in your face, though, so clearly--

[Then Flambae sounds genuinely outraged, and Roman cracks a smile and drops the scholarly analysis.]

Shit, I don't know, take it up with the other guy-fucking expert who came up with that one.

What size are you, anyway?

[He turns his phone around to show off a couple listings. They look well-made, but there's a strange uniformity to it all aside from some slight differences in color and fit, the same sort of oddly sterile look the entire office has. More like a uniform than a style choice.]

[The worst part of this is that Flambae listens with a continued earnest seriousness, for once taking the opportunity to actually listen to Roman’s words instead of sizing up his totally unremarkable appearance.]

Other guy-fucking expert…

[He’s just mindlessly repeating the words. When it comes to sizing in suits, Flambae’s proportions are a tailor’s worst nightmare. His shoulders are linebacker broad, his waist is tiny, and his ass is sitting high and tight over a pair of legs that, while hairy and muscular, could rival the length of a 90’s supermodel’s. It’s no wonder he tailors nearly all of his things himself.

After a few seconds, he leans even closer to the phone, blinking furiously. Somehow, his eyebrows make all of the confusion feel even more pronounced.]

Why are the letters so small?

They are almost as tiny as you.

[Coming closer was so hard… These normcore-ass suits are just so ugly to him, he doesn’t want to look at them.

Oh, he should answer the question.]

I don’t know.

[💀🥲]

I haven’t worn anything like this in a while.

None of the weddings and funerals in my family have been recent.

[He had been smaller before.]

Edited 2025-12-30 07:37 (UTC)

What, you need fuckin' binoculars from up there? Gonna need a neck brace hanging around you tall bitches.

[Clearly it is the world that is tall and not Roman that is short.]

Course ya don't, spandex guy. Alright, just gonna fuckiiiin... [Roman looks Flambae up and down with a few vaguely analytical-sounding mutters that aren't even real words before tapping a few more things on his phone.] ...go big in the shoulders and make 'em play jigsaw puzzle from there.

[Yeah, Flambae's fucking impossible to guess sizes for, even while staring directly at him and trying to assess what would be closest. Roman doesn't think most dudes that height have that kind of tit-to-waist ratio. It's more like a supermodel than security personnel.

Okay, yeah, if Roman puts this guy in something that's too form-fitting, even the most boomer straight-goggled publicist might start to make an assumption. A fuming viewerbase sounds kind of amusing, but Roman remembers his dad telling them not to fuck around. Everything from "getting shot" to "gay tabloids" probably falls under that umbrella.]

Then we got! Black, gray, off-black, navy black, navy blue, off-blue, dark blue, off-gray-blackish-blue...

[He's just fucking around at this point because there's not a ton of real difference.]

[He should be more professional. To some degree, even Flambae knows this, but something tells him that sheer subservience will not do in this situation. Men like Roman are used to pushing people around, and he's chatty. If he loses interest or gets restless, he will be likely to wander, and that is absolutely when he'll get into trouble.

Perhaps the banter will be to his liking. He's crass, like the other members of the Z-team, but sorely lacking in the grit department. That and he is tiny and hiring security, so he absolutely cannot fight.]

Call me a bitch again and you?

[He points to the photos.]

You will be all of those fucking colors.

[Oh! Is he being admired? He'll puff his chest out and straighten his posture... Subtly! Kind of.

Black is kind of his usual thing, but he'd like some plausible deniability. After all, serving as a human shield for a billionaire will not guarantee him more blowjobs on the weekend. Quite the opposite, in fact.]

The blue shit [Flambae, it's a suit.] is fine.

I will make it work.

[Roman raises his eyebrows at the threat as if intrigued. It's very unprofessional and counter-productive for a bodyguard, so of course it catches his attention.

Flambae's probably not going to actually do anything to him, but that he's willing to say it at all gives Roman a slight buzz.]

So you're gonna kick my ass instead of torching it. Whew, lot more personal, huh?

[A little spark of mischief flashes in his eyes like he's enjoying this direction of conversation.

He does cart that blue suit, though.]

Consider this the tip. Don't think Greg would pull off whatever snatched waist thing you've got going on in there if I tried to pawn it off after whatever laser show these masked fucks are planning blows over.

[There goes Flambae's headset again, picking up with chitchat and idle chatter, along with a stern reprimanding from certain everyman voiced by Aaron Paul. At this point, he chooses to ignore it, focusing on the asset.

Flirting is unprofessional, sure, but there are so many times where himself or one of the others has been advised to do it anyway, and often, it is in the manner in which he isn't so adept at. He's too forward or too threatening, so it's rare that anyone will indulge him on his own terms.

If this goes well, it could mean more money for SDN, which also provides the opportunity to gain funds for other things- Rehabilitation, more health benefits, blah, blah, blah, provided that the powers that be use it for the right purposes.

He can't trust that they will. Still, he'll raise a manicured, furry eyebrow and shrug those broad shoulders of his.]

Meh! I guess it would be closer in range... Sooo, it'd be easier to, ah! See and hear you suffer, sure.

[There is a murmur from the headset again. It's Malevola, who seems to be yapping with Sonar about how there's some money owed in her favor, something about a bet on Roman's sexuality.]

But you should know that as a professional hero-

[He says that so proudly it is very annoying!]

I tango with a series of common criminals on a daily basis for my day job, so!

I would not consider any regular old beat-down, mmm, all that special.

Especially if it just so happens to be burn-free.

[Then it could have just as easily been one of the others.]

CALL ME OUT

cw: nsfw, double the canon hr violations

tagging from the airplane, let me know if this is ok he will put the fire out himself

we're all good what's a little minor fire

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Cw: suicide mention

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cw gross/ass horror? I'm so sorry

this is just disgusting

cw nsfw on so many levels. possibly not safe for life

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laughs ghoulishly having watched more of the show

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