Mutual Pinning - Blog Posts

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

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❤︎ summary: you wake up in an unfamiliar place—threadless, wingless, and wildly out of place in a world that forgot how to feel. the man who caught you (or spared you, or maybe neither) offers no comfort. only silence. and rules you don’t understand. but you’re built for love—even stripped of your status, even with your wings torn away—and despite everything, you hum. he watches. you talk. something shifts. and for once, the silence isn’t empty.

❤︎ contains: sfw. soft sci-fi. celestial grief. morally questionable men with capes. lonely mythologies. divine exile. cupid!reader. omni!mark. omni!invincible. slow-burn dynamics. sharp dialogue. soft power plays. emotional tension. thread metaphors. awkward domesticity. a glittery, homesick cupid in a strange house. and one emotionally repressed war criminal trying not to care.

❤︎ warnings: post-exile trauma. references to canonical war/genocide (vague). injury care. survivor’s guilt. isolation. identity confusion. mild body horror (wing loss). emotional withholding. unspoken grief. and the bone-deep ache of trying to be wanted when you were made only to serve.

‪❤︎ wc: 4868

prologue, part one

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i’m honestly so beyond touched by the response to this fic about a wingless cupid and a cosmic war criminal. the love it’s gotten?? unreal. my whole thread-glued heart is just… full. you’ve made this story feel less like a fall and more like a landing. thank you for every comment, like, and reblog—i’m storing them in a pink sparkly jar labeled “emotional fuel.” let’s keep tugging the string—chapter one starts now.

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You wake up face-down in luxury.

Specifically: half-smushed into a couch that feels engineered for spine alignment, interstellar meditation, or a villain’s downtime—not comfort.

Definitely not comfort.

The texture is weirdly sleek—velvet-synthetic.

Expensive.

The kind of couch that exists just to say “I’m expensive”—not to be sat on. Which, of course, you are.

…Badly.

You’re tangled in a heavy blanket that definitely wasn’t there before, limbs twisted like a limp marionette. Every joint aches. Your back screams.

You blink, eyes crusty. Then blink again.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

No ambient hum of threads. No divine frequency. No lace-sky breathing stories into the tips of your wings—

Oh.

Right.

No wings.

Just… nothing.

You inhale shakily, trying not to flinch at the echo of absence where they used to be.

That phantom pull still flickers beneath your skin, like your whole body expects to move differently and can’t understand why it doesn’t.

You sit up slowly, the blanket tangled around your knees slipping off with a whisper-soft sigh.

It’s heavy and warm and smells like something between ozone, steel, and—

Oh.

Him.

“Okay,” you murmur, voice raspy. “Either I survived, or I’m in a very bougie version of limbo.”

Your limbs ache. Everything aches. You’re bruised in places that aren’t even supposed to bruise. Your wings? Still gone. Still phantom. Still wrong.

And the worst part?

The air feels… hollow.

No threads.

No connections.

No one’s longing.

You’re utterly alone—again.

You shuffle upright and glance around, trying not to wobble.

The room is sleek, high-tech in a sterile, vaguely militaristic way. Walls smooth and silver-dark, faintly glowing interface panels here and there.

It’s clean. Cold. Lit with soft panels that glow a sterile blue.

A strange crystalline screen suspended midair flickers with symbols you don’t recognize.

There’s a table that sits low in the center of the room—glass, probably. It looks solid, but you eye it like it might judge you.

You’re not in a prison—not quite.

But you’re not safe either.

Still—your voice comes out bright. Croaky, but bright.

“Well, at least it’s not hell.”

You wobble to your feet and immediately trip over the corner of the blanket.

Stumble, flail, barely catch yourself on what might be a countertop… or a weapons locker. Hard to say.

You don’t recognize a single object in the space.

That doesn’t stop you from touching everything.

A metallic orb hums when you poke it.

Another panel flashes red. You press it again. It turns off.

“Definitely not a prison,” you say, chewing your lip. “Probably. Hopefully. …Possibly a villain’s lair. But like… a tasteful one?”

Your legs push you toward a shelf and there’s an object shaped like a tall, elegant hourglass—except filled with something that glows faintly purple.

Naturally, you poke it.

It purrs.

You yelp.

“H-hello?! Sorry! I didn’t mean—!”

Your voice slowly fades into silence.

You pick up something else. It’s smooth. Cylindrical. Heavy for its size.

“Hmm. Mug? Weapon? Mug and weapon? A murder mug? It feels like a murder mug,” you mumble, turning it over.

“Do they drink blood tea here?”

Then—something beeps. Very softly.

Your whole body tenses.

And then you feel it.

The weight of presence.

Not a string. Not love.

Gravity.

And danger.

You turn—and there he is.

The red-caped man from the field—towering in the doorway like a bad decision carved out of stone and anger.

He’s standing there.

Silent. Immense.

In red and white and black, all sharp lines and steady breath. His cape falls behind him like a curtain of blood. The goggles don’t show his eyes—but you feel the glare through them.

His jaw is set. His arms are crossed. His black goggles glint even in the low light. He doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t have to.

You go solid, still holding the probable mug-weapon.

Ah right—you can’t forget.

It’s still the guy who caught you. Or… confronted you. Or nearly vaporized you last night in a field of daisies.

You give a sheepish smile.

“Hi. Morning. Or, uh, whatever time it is on this… aggressively minimalist version of Earth!”

He tilts his head once. His voice is flat.

Unreadable.

“Don’t touch that.”

You freeze. “This? Oh, no, I wasn’t—I mean, I did. Technically. But only spiritually.”

He doesn’t respond.

You blink. Look at the object. Look back at him. Grin. “Okay. Cool. I won’t. Totally understand boundaries. Big believer in consent.”

He doesn’t react.

You clear your throat. Set the item down. Slowly.

“Although, in my defense, your whole interior design aesthetic is kinda yelling ‘please investigate me.’ So really, it’s—”

“Don’t touch anything,” he cuts in, firmer.

You offer him a sheepish thumbs-up. “Got it. Loud and scary clear.”

And then—because your instincts are garbage and you were literally created to poke things—you touch something else. A little blinking panel near the door.

His eyes narrow.

You drop your hand like it burned you. “Sorry!! Reflex! Very bad reflex!”

He stares.

You stare back, then give a very small, very awkward wave.

Another long pause.

He sighs—just barely. Turns away without a word and disappears down the hall.

You watch him go, blinking.

“…He seems nice.”

You sit back down with a wince, then mutter, “I should definitely touch more stuff.”

You do.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with silence.

Again.

But this time it’s not lonely silence—it’s awkward. Heavy. The kind that settles between two people who don’t know if they’re enemies, housemates, or a cosmic glitch in each other’s timelines.

You linger in the hallway.

Still sore. Still threadless. Still dressed like someone who got kicked out of Heaven and landed in a tech-noir villain’s den.

And still—despite every instinct screaming don’t—you follow him.

Of course you do.

Like a sparkly little space unwanted houseguest with opinions that has zero survival instincts and a tragic affection for ominous men in capes.

He doesn’t say you can’t follow him.

He just walks briskly through his own home—long hallways, seamless doors, touch-panel everything—while you trail behind, barefoot and blinking like a freshly-kicked cherub.

He ignores you.

You ignore his ignoring.

“That’s a cool cape,” you say conversationally, trying to keep up with his strides. “Is it, like, sentimental? Symbolic? Villain-chic? Oh—wait, are you emotionally attached to it?”

No answer.

You lean forward slightly, squinting. “Do you… wear it to bed?”

Still nothing.

You hum thoughtfully. “Is it fused to your soul? Is it detachable? Do you have different ones for different moods—like, casual cape, angry cape, emotional repression cape?”

He doesn’t respond.

You try again. “Can I touch it?”

He stops.

Just like that—halts mid-stride.

You freeze behind him, nearly bumping into his back. And blink up at him.

He turns his head slightly, the cape flaring just enough to ripple past your fingertips.

“Don’t.”

One word. No bite, no growl—just a warning. Like a storm saying this isn’t rain yet, but it could be.

You raise your hands slowly. “Right. Sorry. Cape off-limits. Got it. You’re very committed to the brand.”

He walks again.

You sigh—more dramatic than necessary—but keep following.

“What about the goggles?” you ask. “Do you sleep in those too? Are they like… mood-activated? They’re very intimidating. Very Darth-Vader-meets-heartbreak. No offense.”

He says nothing.

“Okay, so you’re clearly not a big talker,” you mutter. “That’s fine. I talk enough for two. Or ten.”

So you keep going, babbling just to fill the space.

Another hallway. Another panel. Another stretch of angular, too-clean walls and whisper-quiet footsteps.

It’s like walking through a museum designed by someone who’s never smiled—even once.

And somehow—somehow—you still manage to fill the silence.

“You know, in some dimensions, silence is considered a mating ritual,” you offer cheerfully.

He pauses.

You blink. “Wait, not that I’m saying this is that. I mean—it’s not, right? Unless it is—which, um, please clarify. Because if it is, I should probably brush my hair.”

He keeps walking.

You huff, trailing further behind now. Not because you’re tired—well, okay, maybe a little—but mostly because his energy is doing that don’t-get-close thing again.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

He doesn’t respond. Again.

You glance at one of the panels you pass. It blinks red as you near it.

Curious, you step closer.

He doesn’t stop you this time—but you hear it in his voice. That shift. That thread of something darker.

“You’re not allowed outside.”

You freeze. “What?”

“That panel’s locked. Security override in place.”

You blink, confused. “So I can’t leave?”

A beat.

“No.”

Your stomach twists.

You laugh. Light. Thin. “Oh. So I am in a prison.”

“It’s not a prison,” he says flatly.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just said I can’t leave.”

“It’s for your safety.”

“Isn’t that what all supervillains say?”

He turns around then—just slightly—and for the first time, you think maybe he’s trying not to say something. His jaw tightens. Not with anger. Not exactly.

With thought.

You don’t press. Not this time.

Instead, you look out the nearest window—tinted, probably bulletproof, overlooking a skyline that feels wrong. Choked. Smoky and sharp at the edges.

It’s beautiful in the way a burnt cathedral might be. And it feels lonely.

You press your hand to the glass.

Whisper-soft.

“I don’t belong here,” you murmur. Not to him. Not really to yourself, either.

Just… to the glass.

To the world beyond it.

He doesn’t answer.

But he watches you.

And that’s enough to make your heart thud somewhere in the hollowness of your chest.

You exhale. Curl your fingers into a mock-heart on the window.

“You should really consider getting some plants,” you say softly. “This place is screaming ‘emotionally constipated bachelor pad.’”

His reflection doesn’t flinch.

You sigh and turn away.

“I’m gonna go talk to the weird murder mug again.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Later—hours, maybe—you find yourself planted at the far end of what might be the dining area.

Or the command center. It’s hard to tell.

The table looks like it could initiate a planetary strike if you breathe on it wrong.

He sits across from you.

Still.

Still suited. Still silent.

He hasn’t taken the mask off. You haven’t seen his eyes.

But he gave you a name.

Not a real one, probably. But something.

“Invincible,” he said flatly when you asked, finally cracking under the sheer power of your pestering and your best please I’m charming let me know what to call you face.

You didn’t believe him at first.

“Seriously? That’s what you go by?”

He didn’t answer.

Just turned away and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like you’re worse than the other one.

Still—you took it. Grinned. Clutched it like it meant something.

“Okay, Invincible. Cool name. Bit dramatic. But I can work with that.”

He hasn’t asked for your name in return.

You gave it anyway.

Not your designation. Not the code the Realm used.

Just what you used to call yourself, back when you believed in tenderness.

He didn’t comment on it.

He just sat like he is now—spine too straight, hands steepled on the table, as if pretending not to regret every life choice that led to you invading his vaguely dystopian bachelor pad.

You kick your feet under the table.

He says nothing.

So you talk.

Because of course you do.

“Okay, so—fun story,” you begin brightly, draping your arms across the back of your seat. “Once, I accidentally matched a soulweaver with a carnivorous star-being. Didn’t realize their threads were laced with paradox elements. Their honeymoon destroyed a moon.”

You pause.

Grin.

“But they’re still together! Super toxic. Super cute. Kind of horrifying… I’m rooting for them.”

Nothing.

You glance at him.

He’s not looking at you—but his fingers tap once. Barely audible. A twitch in the rhythm.

You keep going.

“I once worked a case where the connection was so knotted it took seven cycles, two reincarnations, and one cosmic dog to unravel it. Not a metaphor. There was literally a dog. He was a thread guide. Very fluffy.”

Still nothing.

But you notice the shift.

The way his chin angles, almost imperceptibly.

Like he’s listening without wanting to. Like he’s filing away every word and pretending he’s not.

You lean forward. Prop your chin on your hand.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” you ask, soft. Just curious.

Invincible freezes.

Just for a second.

Then moves again—barely. Shrugs one shoulder. “Not relevant.”

“Oh, it’s totally relevant,” you say with a mock gasp. “It’s my entire job.”

“You don’t have a job,” he mutters.

“Excuse you,” you sniff. “I am temporarily unemployed. There’s a difference.”

He sighs—again, just barely. But it’s the kind that says if I fly into the sun right now, will she keep talking?

You smile, a little too brightly.

“It’s just—you’re fascinating,” you say, earnest now.

“You move like someone who’s always preparing for war. But there’s something in your hands. Like… you used to hold gentler things.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.

But his knuckles tighten—just slightly.

You catch it.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you hum softly, off-tune and aimless. Just enough to fill the space between your sentences.

“I used to hum like this when I was scared,” you say, staring at the ceiling. “Back when I thought being good meant being useful.”

A long beat.

Then—

“You’re not scared now?” he asks, voice flat.

You glance at him.

Smile.

“Terrified.”

And you mean it.

But it’s soft.

Like a confession wrapped in pink thread and handed over with shaking fingers.

Invincible doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t leave.

And that’s something.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You’re sitting on the edge of the couch—the weird one that thinks it’s better than you—biting the inside of your cheek.

“I can do it myself,” you say.

Immediately lie.

“I’m very good at medical stuff. Definitely qualified. Certified in three realms, actually.”

Invincible doesn’t look convinced.

You don’t blame him.

Your last attempt at bandaging involved decorative knotting and something that suspiciously resembled a shoelace.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he says flatly.

You huff. “You say that like it’s a certainty.”

“It is.”

He crosses the room without waiting for permission, gloved hands already unsnapping some hidden compartment in the wall.

A panel folds out.

Inside: a compact but precise set of medical supplies.

Of course he has medical supplies.

Of course they’re alphabetized.

Of course the antiseptic glows ominously.

You fidget.

“I don’t like that bottle,” you murmur. “It’s judging me.”

He doesn’t respond. Just sets it down on the nearby table with quiet precision.

You swallow.

The silence stretches.

It’s heavier now. Less awkward. More… inevitable.

You wrap your arms around your knees, voice quieter.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

And still—he gestures.

“Turn around.”

Your pulse stumbles. You hesitate.

But then—you do.

Slowly.

You turn your back to him.

Pull the too-big shirt they gave you (his? something spare from the war room? it smells faintly of leather and ozone) off one shoulder. Then the other. Then lift the hem just enough for him to see.

It hurts.

Not just the movement—but the exposure.

It’s not romantic.

Because there’s nothing romantic about torn skin or lost wings.

Invincible doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

But you hear the pause.

The smallest catch in his breath.

Then—his gloved fingers at the edge of the old wrapping. Careful. Methodical.

The first touch makes you flinch.

He stops immediately.

Waits.

Doesn’t apologize—he never apologizes—but he doesn’t push either.

You exhale.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “Keep going.”

The bandages peel away slowly.

You wince.

Not because of the pain—but because you know what it must look like.

The bruising.

The way the skin puckers where the feathers once grew.

The scars trying to form over something that should have never been taken.

Invincible works in silence.

You hum.

It’s soft. Tuneless. The kind of sound you make when you don’t know what else to fill the quiet with.

“I used to help patch people up,” you say absently, voice thin. “Mostly broken hearts, but once I had to reattach a wing to a grief-angel. That was messy. Lots of glitter and wailing.”

Still, he says nothing.

But his hands move gently.

Like he’s trying not to break what’s already broken.

The antiseptic stings. You hiss.

He pauses.

You press your forehead to your knees.

“I’m okay,” you lie again.

A beat passes.

Then another.

Then—

“You’re not.”

You go still.

The words aren’t cruel. Not biting. Just… factual. Like a truth dropped onto the floor and left there.

You don’t reply.

But the humming dies in your throat.

His fingers return. Smoother now. Gliding over the worst of it. Wrapping clean gauze like it means something. Like there’s care in the motion, even if he doesn’t name it.

You close your eyes.

For a moment—you pretend it doesn’t hurt.

You pretend you’re not threadless and wrecked.

You pretend someone is holding you in a way that won’t leave more marks.

And he—this man with no real name, with a face hidden behind silence and sharpness—keeps wrapping your wounds like someone who doesn’t know why he hasn’t stopped yet.

When Invincible finishes, you don’t move right away.

Neither does he.

The air holds the shape of something unsaid.

And for the first time since you fell—

You don’t feel entirely alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with guilt.

Not big, thunderous guilt—the kind that screams or scars.

No, this is softer. Quieter.

The kind that curls under your ribs and pokes at you when it gets too silent.

The kind that sounds like: Invincible hasn’t killed me yet. I should… do something?

You’ve been here for… two sunrises now? Three?

Time is slippery here. Threadless days always are.

But one thing’s clear: for all his sharp edges and scowls, your new… roommate? captor? interdimensional roommate with possible emotional constipation?—he’s been letting you stay.

In his space. On his furniture. Breathing his air.

Rent-free.

The least you could do is say thank you.

So you decide to clean.

Which is dumb. Because you have no idea how any of this tech works.

But that doesn’t stop you.

You start small—folding the blanket you’ve been cocooning in. You even add a little flair.

Tug the corners into soft heart-shaped knots. Totally impractical. Definitely aesthetic.

You set it in the middle of the couch like a peace offering. Or a warning.

You hum to yourself as you tidy.

Not that there’s much to tidy—everything here is spotless, sterile, like a military catalog page come to life.

Still, you try.

Straighten a few panels. Dust off some gleaming surface with the edge of your sleeve.

Eventually, you find what might be a kitchen. Or a weapons bay disguised as a kitchen. Hard to say.

It has counters. It has drawers. One of them contains what you think are utensils. One of them contains a small orb that buzzes and tries to eat your finger.

You close that one. Quickly.

Cooking it is.

You find something vaguely bread-adjacent in a sealed container.

Something that might be butter. Something that definitely isn’t sugar but looks suspiciously like cosmic sand.

You try anyway.

You find heat. A panel that flares red when you touch it.

“Perfect,” you whisper. “Totally safe. I am definitely qualified for this.”

You burn the first attempt. Instantly. Black smoke hisses upward like a judgment.

You try again.

You nearly set the panel on fire.

You keep going.

Eventually, you manage to create… something!

Not good. Not edible. But warm and round-ish and not on fire.

You plate it. Add a flower from the weird glowing vase thing on the counter for presentation. Step back. Admire it.

It’s hideous.

But you made it.

So you carry it out carefully—just as the door hisses open.

And there he is.

Cape flowing. Expression unreadable.

Invincible freezes in the doorway, black goggles flicking from your smoke-streaked face to the kitchen behind you—now full of suspicious smells and one still-smoking dish.

You hold out the plate.

“I made a thank-you loaf,” you say brightly. “It’s mostly… not poison!”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares.

Then—

“Did you override my weapons lock?”

You blink. “What?”

He steps past you, into the kitchen. Taps a barely-visible panel near the wall. A soft click echoes.

Then a compartment slides open to reveal: missiles.

Actual missiles.

“Oh,” you say. “That explains the ticking.”

Invincible turns around slowly.

You grin, sheepish. “In my defense, your cabinet labeling system is deeply confusing.”

He doesn’t yell.

Which is somehow worse.

He just gives you the look.

That disappointed, stone-jawed, exhausted-by-your-whole-existence look.

Your grin falters.

“…I’ll go sit down.”

You do.

And you sulk.

You curl up in the corner of the couch and re-fold the blanket. Then re-fold it again.

You mutter something about interdimensional roommates being impossible to please.

You don’t even notice when he walks back in.

Not at first.

You only notice the pause.

The soft shift of air.

You glance up.

He’s standing at the edge of the room, holding something.

The blanket.

You must’ve left it in the kitchen, half-heartedly abandoned on a counter.

Invincible doesn’t say anything.

But he doesn’t throw it away either.

He folds it once. Carefully.

Sets it back on the couch.

Exactly where it was.

Knots and all.

You don’t say anything.

But your chest feels warmer.

He leaves again.

You smile to yourself.

Next time, you’ll try the cosmic rice.

(Probably a bad idea. But you’re nothing if not persistent.)

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark tells himself you’re just a problem he hasn’t solved yet.

That’s all.

Another anomaly dropped into his territory—another celestial error.

Something to monitor. To contain. Not to engage with.

Definitely not to understand.

He repeats this in his head more than once.

But he still notices things.

You hum when it’s too quiet.

Not on purpose.

Not like you’re trying to fill the space with meaning.

It’s unconscious—barely there. Just a low, tuneless sound you loop under your breath like you’re afraid silence might swallow you if you let it linger too long.

He hears it through the walls sometimes.

Not enough to be irritating. Just enough to be… present.

You clutch your weapon in your sleep.

Not always.

But most nights, when the lights dim and you think he’s stopped watching.

The bow—the one you won’t explain—is usually curled tight against your chest, one hand resting lightly on the grip.

Protective. Familiar.

Like it’s the only thing left that still feels like home.

You move in your sleep too. Restless. Whimpers low, barely audible.

Once, he found you curled into the narrowest corner of the couch like you were trying to disappear inside yourself.

The blanket had fallen. You hadn’t bothered to pick it up.

He hadn’t either.

But he covered you with a new one before leaving.

You never mentioned it.

You walk wrong.

It’s not… bad. Just different.

Like someone still getting used to gravity.

You don’t always trust your footing—sometimes you skip a step, sometimes you hesitate before a turn, like you expect the ground to shift under your feet.

You never ask for help.

But when something startles you—when you nearly drop something, or a panel glitches too loud, or the power flickers just a little too long—your hand twitches toward him before you even realize it.

Like a reflex. Like an instinct you haven’t unlearned.

Like you think he might catch you.

You talk too much.

About nothing. About everything.

Stories that make no sense—about thread-realms and starlight weddings and love gods who punch each other for fun.

Mark doesn’t believe half of it.

But he listens.

Every word.

Worse, he remembers them.

You describe things with your hands—like you can’t just say what you mean, you have to shape it.

Fingers dancing through the air, painting emotion he doesn’t know how to name.

When you laugh, your shoulders always rise first.

When you lie, you bite the inside of your cheek.

You sing off-key. Barely know it.

And you always pause—just for a second—before you smile.

That’s the one that gets him.

The hesitation.

Like you’re weighing whether it’s worth it.

Whether this moment deserves it.

Whether he does.

Mark doesn’t understand you.

And that should be easy.

It’s always been easy, not understanding people. Easier to flatten them. File them into categories: threat, resource, dead.

But you don’t stay in the box.

Don’t follow the rules.

You should be scared of him—he knows you are—but you don’t flinch when he walks past. You make eye contact. You wave. You hum.

You grin.

And he…

He notices.

Even when he doesn’t want to.

Especially then.

So he tells himself it’s strategy.

Just observation.

Just a glitch with glitter in your hair and too many stories in your throat.

That’s all.

That’s all.

But when he walks past the living room, and sees you curled asleep with your bow across your chest and your hands still half-reached toward something that isn’t there—

Mark slows.

Doesn’t stop.

But he slows.

And tells himself again—you’re just a problem.

Not a person.

Not someone.

Not his.

Not yet, not never.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The apartment is unusually quiet.

Ever since you got here—there’s always something humming softly in the air. Mark doesn’t notice the silence at first.

He’s used to that. Prefers it.

But this is different.

It’s a small sound that finally breaks him out of his thoughts.

Soft. Barely there.

At first, Mark thinks the sound is static.

Just another nighttime glitch—a flicker in the power grid, maybe. A disturbance in the perimeter sensors.

Something small. Something easy.

But then he hears it again.

Soft. Fragile. Not mechanical.

Human.

He moves before thinking.

Quiet steps down the hallway. Past the control room. Around the corner where the lights are still dimmed to sleep-mode. His hand hovers over the doorframe.

You’re still asleep.

Sort of.

Your body’s curled inward on the couch—smaller than usual, shoulders tight, hands clenched in the blanket. Not the bow this time. Just the blanket.

But your face—

Your face is wet.

Tears carve tracks down your cheeks in silence.

Your lips move, but there’s no sound. Your breath catches on each inhale like it doesn’t know how to settle in your chest.

You don’t sob. Don’t cry out.

You just tremble.

Mark doesn’t move.

He should. He knows he should. Turn away. Walk off. Let you have your grief like you always have—alone, unspeaking, full of bright little lies and off-key humming.

But you’re not humming now.

You’re breaking.

And he—

He watches.

Not with judgment.

Not even with curiosity.

Just… quietly.

Like something in him knows this is sacred. Or familiar. Or both.

He takes a breath. Slow. Controlled.

Then turns away long enough to return with a glass of water.

He sets it down on the table near you. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.

Doesn’t ask.

When he glances back—

You’re still asleep.

But your hand moves. Barely.

Reaches toward the glass.

Or maybe toward something else.

Mark doesn’t stay to see if you find it.

But as he walks away, the sound of your breath steadying follows him.

Not whole.

Not healed.

But enough.

And for reasons he doesn’t name—

That’s worse than a scream.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room.

Surrounded by scraps of thread you found in one of the deep storage drawers Invincible didn’t think you’d find.

(He was wrong.)

One’s gold.

One’s red.

One’s a tangled mess of fraying blue that might actually be a shoelace.

You’re holding them all up like evidence.

Invincible’s standing over you. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Entire posture radiating why are you like this.

You grin up at him.

“Okay,” you begin, voice bright, “so this one represents soul-tied destinies—deep, ancient, violently passionate.” You wiggle the red one.

“This one is light-thread—super soft, fluttery, usually forms during meet-cutes or emotionally charged hand-touching.” The gold.

You hold up the blue.

“This one is chaos. I don’t know where it came from. Possibly cursed. Could be your vibe.”

He squints. “Are you seriously playing with string right now?”

“It’s not playing,” you gasp. “It’s education. I’m trying to teach you how threads work.”

“I don’t care how threads work.”

“You should! Not that you have one—rude—but if you did, yours would definitely be fire-forged, probably double-knotted, tangled six times over, emotionally scorched and fraying at the edges—oh, and extremely defensive.”

He blinks.

Then—“What does that even mean.”

You pause. Smile softly.

“It means you’re very repressed, babe.”

A beat.

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you like you’ve grown another head. (Honestly, that would explain a lot, probably.)

You shrug. Flick the red string toward him. It hits his chest.

Invincible doesn’t catch it.

“Here. Pretend that’s your thread.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“God, you’re no fun.”

He turns to leave.

You call after him, “You’d definitely be a reluctant soulmate.”

He freezes in the doorway.

Very quietly, without turning around, he says.

“There’s no such thing.”

You smile to yourself. Pick up the gold thread again. Loop it gently around your fingers.

“Not yet,” you murmur. “But they don’t always start that way.”

He doesn’t respond.

But he doesn’t walk away either.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

FULL MASTERLIST + PLAYLIST

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: cupids never miss. you never have. until now. exiled from the threads-of-fate realm for getting too involved in a love you weren’t meant to touch—you end up stranded on a version of earth you don’t belong to—and in the care of someone who doesn’t believe in fate. this universe’s mark grayson has zero patience for cosmic nonsense, but when he finds you bloodied, wing-clipped, and somehow still too bubbly for someone with abandonment issues… he brings you home anyway. he tells himself it’s temporary. he tells himself he doesn’t care. he’s very, very wrong. especially when you accidentally shoot yourself in the chest with one of your own arrows mid-battle—and fall devastatingly in love with him. now he has a problem. because maybe… the arrow hit him too.

❤︎ contains: nsfw (18+). slow burn. yearning. banished divine being with a red string complex. mythology reimagined. omni!mark. omni!invincible. cupid!reader. emotional repression. forbidden love. heavy topics. enemies-to-reluctant-roommates-to-oh-no. accidental domesticity. self-shot with a love arrow. sudden clinginess. lots of touching. mutual pining (like, soul-aching). plot. steamy tension. eventual smut. softness earned in blood.

❤︎ warnings: emotional repression. abandonment themes. divine exile. unrequited love (at first). injury/battle scenes. mentions of blood (light). intense pining. identity crisis. self-worth themes. vulnerability handled with tenderness. cosmic displacement. one self-inflicted love arrow situation. and a very grumpy demi-god trying very hard not to fall in love with the stray romantic chaos entity nesting on his couch.

‪❤︎ wc: TBD (multi-part).ᐟ.ᐟ

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly (thank you for your patience, angel—turns out crafting a wingless cupid with a bruised heart takes more than a few missed shots. but your request never left my string. hope it hits you right in the feels (in the best way). thanks for letting me aim this story your way!)

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a/n: listen. i didn’t mean to fall this hard for cupid!reader. but she shot me too, okay?? also yes. there will be flirting. there will be emotionally repressed omni!mark being very bad at not falling in love with stray cosmic girls who talk too much. it’s fine. i’m fine.

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˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

prologue 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 1 𓊆ྀིread here𓊇ྀི

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 2 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 3 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 4 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 5 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 6 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 7 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 8 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 9 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter 10 ✍︎

ʚ💘ɞ

ˋ°•*⁀➷

chapter ???

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˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

🎧ྀི prologue song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

જ⁀➴ 𓊆ྀི”A New Kind Of Love - Demo” —Frou Frou𓊇ྀི

🎧ྀི chapter 1 song ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

જ⁀➴ 𓊆ྀི”The Thrill Of Loneliness” —Honey Stretton𓊇ྀི

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ…

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re here to teach, not manage a walking concussion with charm issues. but he keeps looking at you like you hung the stars—and asking questions like you owe him answers. it’s temporary. it’s professional. it’s absolutely not personal. right?

⛨ contains: sfw. slow tension. hospital-grade sarcasm. emotional constipation. accidental pining. reader being done™. mark being so not subtle. vending machine cameos. background bureaucracy.

⛨ warnings: mild language. cecil stedman. lingering looks. golden retriever energy. mild secondhand embarrassment. one scalpel-related flirtation if you squint.

⛨ wc: 2839

prologue, part one, part two

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a/n: honorable mention to donald for surviving government-grade stress, doing 99% of the admin work and getting 0% of the appreciation. chapter three is happening. probably. don’t look at me like that.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The hum of fluorescent lights should’ve blended into the background by now. So should the low thrum of activity—boots echoing against concrete, the shuffle of files, hushed conversations between medics and masked vigilantes. But somehow, everything still feels a little too loud.

Maybe it’s the migraine brewing behind your eyes. Maybe it’s the fact that he won’t stop staring at you.

You shift your weight, cross your arms, and resolutely pretend you don’t notice.

That Invincible is standing three feet to your left, burning a hole through the side of your head with an intensity that shouldn’t be allowed from someone who wears goggles.

You’ve been ignoring him for seven minutes and counting.

You’ve acknowledged literally everything else in this sterile, underground chaos bunker—someone called Sea Salt (you can’t be bothered to care enough to remember properly) pacing in the background, a superhero with a dislocated shoulder yelling about insurance coverage, the world’s most suspicious vending machine—but not him.

And still, he stares.

You exhale slowly. Sharply turn your head.

He flinches like you threw something at him.

“Can I help you?”

The words are flat, clipped. The tone you use when a patient insists they know better because they once watched half an episode of ’Grey’s Anatomy’.

Invincible stammers. Actually stammers, like he doesn’t know what to do now that you talked back.

Your brows lift. “You’ve been standing there like an underpaid mall cop—gaping at me like I’m the last donut at a police briefing. Do you mind?”

He fumbles for a reply. You regret asking immediately.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

A few days earlier.

You were on your fourth cup of coffee and hour three of mid-insomnia spiraling when the email came in.

A subject line so vague it practically screamed delete me.

“URGENT: National Heroic Outreach Program — Personnel Request.”

It sounded like someone stitched together LinkedIn buzzwords with a glue stick and a dream.

You almost deleted it without opening. Fingers already moving to close the laptop.

And that’s when your eye caught the numbers.

A full contract breakdown, bolded in crisp font at the bottom of the message. Enough zeroes to make your exhausted brain glitch.

You squinted. Re-read. Laughed.

Then read it again.

Field medics, trauma therapists, stabilization specialists…

Working directly alongside sanctioned heroic units. Teaching them.

Short-term. High risk. Higher pay.

You were already muttering “absolutely not” as you clicked Reply.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

And now here you are.

In the middle of a hidden operations center that smells faintly of iodine and military-grade deodorant, trying to keep your expression neutral while Invincible looks at you like you invented sunlight.

You narrow your eyes.

“Seriously man. What is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” he says almost too quickly. “I just…”

Didn’t think I’d ever hear you again—he wants to say, but the words die in his throat.

You groan like a middle-aged man.

“Fine, whatever—keep your staring fetish a secret. But you’re still in my space.”

And somehow, despite the sarcasm, despite the walls you’re already rebuilding brick by brick—he smiles. Like you just handed him a sunrise.

Weirdo.

The silence stretches.

Finally—finally—he stops staring. You can feel it.

Like the sun setting. Like freedom on the breeze. You don’t know what bliss tastes like, but you’re pretty sure it’s this exact moment.

Invincible turns his head. Doesn’t say a word. For the first time in almost ten minutes, you can breathe.

The air tastes clearer. Your shoulders lower half an inch. You feel like Eren Yeager looking out at the ocean, finally glimpsing the other side of the fence—finally, the taste of freedom.

You close your eyes, let your arms fall just a bit looser, and begin to reach for that fragile, sacred—

“So… what’s your name?”

You shut your eyes tighter. Channel the serenity of that dog meme you saw once—some old lab basking in the light like he’s ascended to a higher plane. That’s you now. Resigned to whatever curse has chosen to follow you. Accepting the inevitable.

“…Hello?” he tries again.

You breathe in. Deep. Steady. And swallow a curse.

“It’s not important,” you finally say, voice flat.

He blinks.

“Uh—it kinda is? We’re working together, technically. It’s basic team-building. Knowing names builds trust. It’s psychologically proven—like in war movies or HR seminars. I feel like not knowing your name makes it hard to build rapport. Or connection. Or, you know, that dramatic tension where I save your life and you cry over me in slow motion.”

He’s rambling now.

You open one eye. He’s serious. Or, worse—he thinks he’s funny.

You tune him out.

Just completely power down. Close your eyes again, channel the dog meme—serene, resigned, ascended. Accepting your fate as a woman destined to be cornered by a golden retriever in a super suit.

But of course—of course—luck hates you.

Footsteps echo behind you. Measured. Heavy. Government-issued.

Invincible’s voice finally stops.

You open your eyes slowly, carefully.

Cecil Stedman stands a few feet away, looking like someone who’s been awake for forty-seven hours and hates it less than he hates incompetence.

He looks at the hero. Then at you. He exhales like he regrets every decision that’s led to this moment.

“Invincible,” Cecil says, deadpan. “It’s not your job to harass new personnel.”

You smile. A flicker of victory warms your chest.

But it’s short-lived.

“And you—” Cecil turns to you, voice sharp and gravel as he states your full name and last name, “…stop ignoring people when they’re trying to learn from you.”

Invincible’s head snaps up.

Your smile dies on impact.

“…yes, sir.”

You hate him now. Fully. With your entire soul. You will refer to this man as Sea Salt until the day you retire, but only behind his back (you have bills to pay).

Cecil nods. Done with this interaction.

“You’re both assigned to Medical Rotation C for the next three hours. Report to briefings on time, don’t destroy anything, and for the love of god—try not to bleed on each other.”

He turns and walks away like he didn’t just detonate a small emotional warhead and bounce.

You blink slowly.

The superhero grins. Way too close to you.

Invincible repeats your name. Softly. Like he’s trying it on. Like he’s going to wrap it around a sentence any second just to hear it out loud again.

You don’t look at him.

You stare at a crack in the ground and plot how to fake your own death.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

This is fine. Totally fine. No one has died yet.

Except maybe him. Internally. Repeatedly.

You’ve been working together for exactly twenty-three minutes and some change, and Mark is dangerously close to pulling a muscle from glancing at you too often.

It’s not subtle. He knows that. He’s just hoping you haven’t noticed yet.

Mark Grayson—Invincible, world-class puncher of bad guys and part-time public disaster—is on assignment. Medical rotation. One-on-one.

With you.

You haven’t said more than three words since you got here.

Okay—technically, it was four if you counted “Don’t touch that,” which he did. Emotionally. Spiritually. Like a prayer.

He glances sideways. Again. That’s… what? The fifteenth time?

You’re focused. Like laser-cut precision focused. You haven’t looked at him once since the briefing ended, and that alone is doing something catastrophic to his brain chemistry. Your sleeves are rolled up, fingers moving quickly as you sort through supplies and assess whatever half-broken med bay gear they shoved into this basement. And he—

Technically, he’s supposed to be learning. Technically.

He commits the angle of your jaw to memory. He might need to sketch it later. For science.

A cart wheel squeaks. He jumps.

Smooth. Reeeal smooth Mark.

Mark’s dropped the same tool twice. He’s reorganized the same three items five different ways. And when you leaned over earlier—just for a second—he forgot how to breathe.

He thinks he said something to you. Maybe. You didn’t respond.

You probably didn’t even hear him.

Which is fair. You’re working. This is work. He should be working too.

Instead, he’s cataloging every tiny thing about you like it’s the last time he’ll get to. The little crease between your brows when you concentrate. The way you tilt your head when you read a label. The way your lips move slightly when you mutter to yourself. It’s ridiculous. He knows it’s ridiculous. But it’s also—

He nearly knocks over a tray of syringes and freezes like a man in a minefield.

You just say, “Don’t,” without even looking up.

That’s it. One word. And he listens.

Like his soul has been stapled to your command.

He exhales slowly. Starts organizing gauze packets like they’re puzzle pieces and not the only thing keeping him from going absolutely feral with nervous energy.

You’re right there. You’re right there. And not in the middle of some catastrophic collapse or stopping someone’s bleeding from a stress wound. Just—here. Breathing the same recycled air. Wearing scrubs like they’re armor. Not looking at him.

Mark resists the urge to break something—anything—just to make you look at him.

He peeks again.

Yeah. Still perfect.

“Invincible.”

He startles.

You don’t even look at him. Just gesture vaguely at the scalpel in his hand. “That’s upside down.”

“…Right,” he mutters, flipping it. “Just testing you.”

“You failed.”

You don’t say it with heat. Not quite. But not nicely either.

He clears his throat and tries again, forcing himself to focus on literally anything that isn’t the fact that you’re within touching distance. That you smell like antiseptic and cheap gum. That you’re here, and for some reason—still kind of talking to him.

He wants to say something normal. Something clever. But everything that comes to mind sounds like it belongs in a YA novel or a fever dream.

Instead, he peeks at you again.

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do.

But you don’t look back.

And still—he grins.

Because this? Being close enough to reach, even if you never turn around?

It’s more than he thought he’d ever get.

It’s not enough.

Mark lied.

All that pretending—organizing, fixing, standing next to you for three and a half hours like it didn’t matter—like breathing the same air wasn’t scrambling his brain chemistry?

He thought it would be enough. Just this. Just being near you.

But now you’re packing up.

And suddenly, it’s not.

You toss a roll of gauze into your bag like it keyed your car in a past life. Peel off your gloves with the grace of someone absolutely done with today.

The neckline of your scrubs shifts when you move, collarbone catching the light, and he has to look away.

You’re leaving.

You’re actually leaving.

He thought he’d be okay with it. He’s not.

You stretch your neck like it’s stiff, roll your shoulders with a sigh, and Mark swears it’s the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

Which is insane. It’s a shoulder roll.

But you’re doing it. And it’s happening five feet from him. And he doesn’t know when—or if—he’ll see you like this again.

Normal. Off guard. Not covered in ash and dust.

You zip your bag shut.

And that’s when panic hits him.

It spikes in his chest like a bad punch—jarring and immediate and almost embarrassing. Because if you walk out now, that’s it. You’ll vanish again. And he’ll be stuck wondering if he imagined all of this. You. The way you said his hero name like it was a dare.

His fingers twitch at his side.

He has no idea what he’s going to say.

He just knows he needs to say something before you’re gone.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You clear your throat. Loud enough to be polite. Dismissive enough to make a point.

“I’m done here.”

He blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

You wait for him to move. He doesn’t.

You arch a brow. “Door’s behind you.”

Invincible stares at you like you’ve just committed a federal crime. “You’re—leaving?”

You frown. “Yes? That’s what normal people do when the job is finished.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Frowns.

“I just—” The hero shifts, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “I figured we’d—maybe—uh, debrief?”

You blink.

He looks panicked now. “Not like a real debrief! I meant like… decompress? Debrief-light? Low-stakes post-mission rapport-building?”

You pause. Then snort. You can’t help it. It slips out before you can stop it.

He looks like he just won the lottery.

You sigh, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “If this is your way of asking to walk me out—”

“Yes.”

“…I didn’t finish.”

“Still yes.”

You stare.

He fidgets. “Is that okay?”

You hesitate for a breath. Then roll your eyes. “Fine. But if you get weird again, I’m tasering you.”

Invincible grins. “I’ve survived worse.”

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

A few days later.

You look like shit.

Not in a poetic way. Not in a cool, morally-gray antiheroine way. Just in the deeply human, overworked, underpaid, sore-back, I-haven’t-slept-since-Tuesday kind of way.

The ER lights buzz too loud. The coffee machine’s broken again. There’s a spot on your scrubs that might be blood or ink or maybe just your will to live leaking out.

It’s a Tuesday. Maybe.

You’re half-asleep at the nurses’ station when Carla walks up with a folder. She chews her gum like it’s keeping her tethered to this plane of existence.

“Room 9’s yours.”

You blink up at her. “Seriously?”

Carla shrugs. “Guy’s already in there. Looks like he could pay off my student loans in one go, but what do I know. File’s clean. Probably just here to flirt or die. Those are the only two kinds we get.”

You sigh. Take the clipboard. Totally miss Carla’s knowing expression and lazily stroll down the hallway.

Your pen’s already clicking as you push through the long corridor, shoulder nudging the door open without thinking.

You flip through the back pages first—vitals, allergy list, something about minor lacerations. The usual.

The door clicks shut behind you as you scan the first page for the name.

“Mark Grayson…” you murmur, before finally looking up.

He’s already watching you.

Smile crooked. Sheepish. And oddly familiar.

You blink. Shake your head. Tap your pen once against the clipboard.

“…What can I do for you today?”

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

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Before the bunker. Before the clipboard. Just burnt coffee and bad timing.

The room smells of government-grade stress and poor decisions. Fluorescents hum overhead. Somewhere outside the door, someone’s arguing with a vending machine again.

Cecil Stedman doesn’t look up from the file in his hands.

Donald stands nearby, half-glancing over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone to call out his name and ruin his night any second now.

“I don’t need someone who wants to save the world,” Cecil mutters, flipping a page. “I need someone who knows how to keep it breathing long enough to do that.”

Donald doesn’t answer at first. Scrolls through his tablet with the dead-eyed speed of a man two cups past his caffeine limit.

Cecil drops the folder on the table.

“Her.”

Donald glances down. Sees your name. Frowns.

“She’s not exactly—uh, team-oriented.”

“Good.” Cecil leans back in his chair. “We don’t need another idealist who thinks CPR is optional. We need someone who’ll tell a cape to stop cauterizing wounds with laser vision.”

Donald shifts. “She’s got a record of pushing back on authority.”

“Yeah. So do I.” He picks up the file again, thumbs through it like he’s reading between the lines. “Field trauma specialist. Surgical certs. Five years ER, three years private contract, and one particularly colorful incident involving Invincible.”

Donald raises a brow. “You want her for the hero-medical crossover?”

“Yeah. Not full-time. Just this once.” He thumbs through the file again.

”She’s not exactly a fan of the spandex crowd.” Donald reminds him.

“Which is why she’s perfect.” Cecil taps the edge of the folder. “She doesn’t worship them. She knows how they break. And better—how to keep them from bleeding out on asphalt.”

Donald crosses his arms. “You really think she’ll say yes?”

Cecil shrugs. “Send the contract. Let the pay do the talking. If that doesn’t work… remind her how many heroes think gauze solves internal bleeding.”

A beat passes. Donald exhales slowly.

“We’re asking her to train them. Teach them medical response. Basics. Field aid without powers.”

“Exactly,” Cecil mutters, eyes back on the file. “We’ve got too many weapons and not enough medics. Time we taught the kids how to stop the bleeding before they cause it.”

“And you think she’ll go for it?”

“Temporary contract,” Cecil repeats simply. “Send the numbers. Dangle the autonomy. No long-term commitment, no spandex worship, just her and a bunch of capes learning how not to be idiots for a few hours.”

Donald nods once and turns to leave.

Cecil stays where he is, flipping back to the front of the file.

A photo clipped to the corner. Dark circles under your eyes. Expression flat. Hands gloved, steady.

Unimpressed with the world and clearly not afraid to let it know.

He smiles, just barely.

“Let’s hope she doesn’t kill anyone.”

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