The medbay was quiet in that soft, humming way that always made people instinctively lower their voices, as if the machines themselves demanded respect. Soft lights glowed overhead, casting everything in a calm, sterile haze while the healers worked carefully around you.
You, meanwhile, were very much not calm.
“I don’t need that many wraps,” you muttered, glaring down at your arm as a healer adjusted the splint again. “It’s one arm, not a full-body injury.”
“It’s a fracture, Your Highness,” the medical droid replied. “And you also have a concussion.”
“I feel fine.”
From the chair beside your bed, Obi-Wan made a quiet sound that was dangerously close to disbelief.
You turned your head toward him immediately, eyes narrowing. “Don’t start.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I assure you,” he said mildly, though there was a hint of something softer in his tone now, “my thoughts are entirely reasonable.”
You scoffed, shifting slightly only to hiss under your breath when your arm protested.
His hand was there instantly, not grabbing. Not restraining.
Just… there.
Hovering at your side, steadying you without pressure, his thumb brushing lightly against your wrist as if checking that you were still real.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Your irritation flickered, then softened just a fraction. “…I am being careful.”
“You are arguing with medical staff.”
“They started it.”
Across the room, Anakin leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, watching the entire exchange with barely contained amusement. Padmé stood beside him, composed as always though the corner of her mouth kept twitching like she was fighting a smile.
Anakin leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as Obi-Wan reached up to gently brush a loose strand of hair away from your face.
“It’s a bit pathetic, right?” he whispered.
Padmé’s eyes widened just slightly as she elbowed him. “Anakin.”
“What?” he muttered, grinning. “Look at him.”
Because Obi-Wan wasn’t even trying to pretend anymore.
He sat close, too close for someone who insisted on Jedi detachment, his body angled toward you like he’d forgotten the rest of the room existed. His hand lingered near your shoulder, occasionally adjusting the blanket, smoothing your hair back again when it fell into your face, his gaze constantly flicking over you like he was checking for injuries that had already been treated.
It was…obvious.
Painfully obvious.
On the other side of the room, Ahsoka clasped her hands together with a quiet, delighted little gasp.
“I think they’re cute,” she whispered, absolutely beaming.
Anakin gagged.
Loudly.
“Oh, that’s disgusting.”
You turned your head instantly. “I can still hear you.”
“Good,” Anakin shot back. “Maybe then you’ll realize you’ve turned my master into...” he gestured vaguely toward Obi-Wan, who was currently adjusting your pillow with entirely too much care, “...that.”
Obi-Wan didn’t even look at him. "Anakin.”
“That’s not a denial,” he pressed, smirking now. “You’re hovering.”
“I am ensuring she is comfortable.”
“You’ve adjusted that pillow five times.”
“It required adjustment.”
“It did not.”
“It did.”
Ahsoka snorted softly, bouncing slightly on her heels. “You’re both wrong. It’s not the pillow.”
Anakin raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“It’s the hair thing,” she said, pointing dramatically as Obi-Wan completely unconsciously, brushed your hair back again. “That’s the one that makes it obvious.”
Anakin made a face like he’d just smelled something terrible. “I’m going to be sick.”
Padmé pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly trying not to laugh. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I am not being dramatic,” he insisted. “I have watched this man lecture me for years about attachment, and now he’s...he’s—” he waved a hand again, searching for words, “...fixing her hair.!"
“I can hear you,” Obi-Wan said calmly.
“Good.”
You shifted again, eyes flicking between them before settling back on Obi-Wan, your lips twitching slightly despite yourself.
“…You are hovering,” you murmured.
His gaze dropped to you immediately. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am ensuring—”
“that I don’t spontaneously combust?” you cut in dryly.
A pause.
“…That you are comfortable.”
You hummed, studying him for a moment, something softer slipping into your expression.
Then, without warning, you leaned slightly toward him, just enough that your shoulder brushed his arm and let your head tilt, resting lightly against him.
The room went silent.
Obi-Wan froze.
Completely.
Anakin gagged again. “Oh, come on.”
Ahsoka clutched her hands to her chest like she might actually explode. “I knew it—”
Padmé finally gave in, turning her face slightly to hide her smile.
Obi-Wan, meanwhile, very carefully did not move.
Not away.
Not closer.
Just… stayed.
As if he’d decided that breathing too loudly might ruin the moment.
You let out a quiet, satisfied little hum, eyes slipping half-shut as you settled more comfortably against him. “…There,” you murmured. “Better.”
His hand hovered again for a second, just hesitating before gently, cautiously, coming to rest against your shoulder.
Anakin made the most dramatic choking noise yet, dragging a hand down his face. “This is unbearable.”
Ahsoka grinned brightly. “You’re just jealous.”
“I am not jealous.”
“You are.”
“I am traumatized.”
Padmé laughed softly under her breath, shaking her head.
And across the room, Obi-Wan didn’t respond to any of it.
Didn’t rise to the teasing.
Didn’t correct them.
Because you were leaning against him.
Safe.
Warm.
Here.
And for once, he didn’t seem to mind being called out at all.
Jason was so fun to draw I definitely want to do more dc art! maybe absolute superman or Wally west..never doing bedsheets again though that was so hard it felt malicious
From a young age, you had the ability to absolutely ruin what would be a heartfelt moment.
“Mark… you’re half Viltrumite.”
“You’re half little girl too. Chicken.”
Nolan lets out a breath, blue eyes narrowing at your intrusion but he doesn’t have the heart to send you away. Not when you’re holding out a glass of orange juice, tiny hands clasped around the surface of the glass, so careful to not spill.
“So, is Mark gonna get deported?” Your tiny brows scrunch, lips tugged into a frown and Nolan snorts.
“He’s not that kind of alien.”
You think back on that conversation as you remain seated on the wooden deck, face turned towards the Sun, and you can barely make out the way Mark and Nolan’s figure stand out like sore thumbs in the endless blue.
And then, Mark’s getting too close to the ground. Too close, too fast and your heart nearly stops in your chest.
And with a flurry of dust, Mark leaves behind a crater where he hits the ground and you’re barely able to cough away the dust, hands having the sand away from your face before you watch as Nolan helps him up. Gloved hands dust the blades of grass and soil from his shoulders.
“You want a sip of my water?” You hold out your water bottle as an offer and Mark scrunches his nose, shaking his head. “I’m good.” He reassures you softly, before looking back towards Nolan and you can barely deny the fact that you’re crossing your legs over one another to relieve the tension in your thighs.
You feel like a sick freak.
A few scuffs on the backs of his arms, raven strands slightly tousled from his flight and you’re feeling every hole on your body clench. Mark looks so focused, jaw clenched as he hangs on Nolan’s every word, brows creased in concentration and you watch the way his tongue peeks out between his lips, wetting the plump bottom one and you watch the flesh pinken.
And you swallow.
But once you’re snapping out of your reverie, you’re already watching Mark curl up, clutching his chest ad your eyes widen, knees scuffing at the grass at the speed that you’re moving, kneeling at his side and rubbing his back.
“Stop coddling him.” Nolan instructs, jaw clenching at the way Mark’s body contorts, hiding his face in the soft pudginess of your belly. And your fingers card through his hair, lips tugging downwards into a concerned frown before you look up at Nolan.
“Mr Nolan, aren’t you maybe pushing him a bit too hard?”
“Are you telling me how to raise my son?” There’s a tinge of defensiveness in his voice and your lips press together in a thin line.
“No sir.” You nearly grit the words out, helping Mark to his knees instead, dusting the sand from his side, using the long sleeve of your T-shirt to wipe at the salty tears that brim at his lashline.
“I mean, I only kept a hamster with diagnosed anxiety alive for 10 years.”
“You hurt me…” Mark’s face damn near crumples, leaning against your side as he stares up at Nolan.
“I… didn’t mean to hit you that hard… I’m sorry.” Nolan helps Mark to his feet, and you dust at your knees as you come up, staring down at your soil-caked sneakers. Freshly cleaned converse, for nothing.
And Mark glances towards you, following your gaze to your feet. Scuffed sneakers and soil dusted socks.
“I’ll clean your shoes.” He reassures softly, before letting out a cough.
⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆
“I don’t think you’re a loser.”
Your voice is quiet as you sit in the centre of Mark’s bed, feet tucked beneath your ass as you watch him move around his room, sock-covered feet padding across the carpet with unrest.
You try not to be a pervert.
His face pressed into your belly, arms limp at his sides and you let out a sigh, raking your fingers through his damp strands, feeling the way they slip from your grasp.
But he looks a bit more muscular than you remember him being. Wide shoulders with the perfect amount of delves to showcase toned cords of muscle, a broad back lined with sinewy muscles and you curl your lips inward when you watch the flexing flesh shift beneath his skin. And you nearly bite your knuckles when he shrugs on a T-shirt, moving towards you and he plops down onto his bed.
“I mean, I don’t think you’re any bigger of a loser than you were before you get your powers.” You correct and you feel the way his chest rumbles as he laughs, before peering up at you through his lashes.
“You’re such an asshole.” He snickers, before pressing his cheek against your diaphragm.
“I can hear your heartbeat.” Mark mumbles softly, fingertips pressing into your sides just a bit, as he tries to focus on the gentle thump.
But you’re sweating. Because now there’s pressure to calm down.
“Can you hear the shit that’s making it’s way through my colon?”
And Mark laughs loudly, dimples deepening in his cheeks and you catch a glimpse of pointy canines that glint in the dim light of the lamp on his nightstand.
“I was trying not to focus on it.” He jokes with a snort, before sitting up, hands moving to rest on the fat of your thighs, exposed by the cottony fabric of your nightshorts. And Mark glances at you, sharp brown eyes drinking in the sight of you slumped against his pillow, surrounded by his comforters and the smell of him is clinging to you.
Fuck, he can smell himself on your skin and it’s a heady combination.
And it’s like silence blankets you both.
Prolonged eye contact and you can feel the way his thumb trace indiscernible patterns on the soft skin of your thighs, his gaze never wavering from where your lashes flutter, and his eyes lower. Only for a second to your lips.
He thinks it’s unfair that he’s never felt them against his and Mark doesn’t know what possesses him, but he leans in.
Moonlight forms a halo on his hair, his hands shift to your hips and your breath nearly stutter.
And much like Mark does, he pussies out.
Instead, bringing a hand up to pick at an eyelash on your cheek. You know damn well there’s no fucking eyelash. But instead, you shift back, putting a bit of distance between the two of you.
And you swallow.
“I should probably head home. It’s like, what, 10?”
Mark’s brows furrow and like a switch in your brain, your hand lifts, your thumb smoothing out the crease between his brows.
“I thought you were sleeping over?”
And you need to think of a quick lie.
“While you were in the shower, I found your bottle of lotion and your elbows are still dry. So, I don’t want you to be beating your dick while I’m under the same roof as you.”
You make relatively quick work of escaping from the space between him and his bed, planting your feet on the lush carpet and you stretch your arms overhead.
Mark tries to be respectful when your shirt raises a bit, exposing the cute dimples in your lower back and he bites the inside of his cheek, jaw tensing with the action before he quips back.
“What makes you think I haven’t done it in your house?”
“What makes you think I haven’t done it in yours?”
You’re quick with your words and it’s almost shameful how sweaty they make Mark’s palms, the image engraved into his mind before he can stop it.
The way you dainty fingers would circle your clit over your panties, hopefully that pretty pastel blue panties that he caught a glimpse of when you were rifling through your drawers last week. The way your gusset would darken and he can’t deny that he’d love to hear the way you breathe his name out.
But no.
It’s not like that. He thinks. He hopes.
“You’re sick.” He grumbles under his breath, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you, or to himself. Especially with the way the corners of his mouth tug downwards.
“Maybe.” You shrug. “Or maybe William’s jerked off in your house. We’ll never know.”
And Mark grimaces.
“Go home.” A pause. “And text me when you get there.”
“I literally live next door.”
And Mark stares at you. Blank and unreadable.
“Text me. When you. Get home.”
⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆
Mark takes a nice, deep breath, boxers lowered just enough and he glances towards the ceiling, mind working overtime to conjure up one of his nightly fantasies.
But Amber’s face is muddled in his memories and Mark’s heart starts to pound nervously when your features come to view in his mind’s eye, unwelcome like an intrusive thought.
And Mark lets out an exhausted groan when he feels a bead of precum roll onto his fist.
“No.” He huffs, eyes squeezed shut as he tries his utmost hardest to picture who he wants to. “Amber. Amber. Amber.”
But he slowly softens in his grasp and Mark takes a deep breath.
“Shit.”
𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌻🌼🪻୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒
“You’re never here this early.” Mark hums, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you, arms raised over your head as you proceed to hang banners across the ceiling, William’s distracted hold on the ladder seems to be enough to keep you steady. “What’s the occasion?”
“Student body elections are coming up and I’m trying to get picked for something.” You answer. “I’m trying to incorporate crop tops into the football team’s official practice uniform.”
“God’s work.” William sighs before glancing down the hallway, a sharp intake of breath at the sight of Todd.
“Doesn’t look like Amber’s here to save you today, Grayson.” Todd’s voice causes you to tear your eyes away from the banner. Well, actually, it’s the sound of Mark being shoved against a metallic locker that makes you look.
And you let out a breath.
Reaching into your pocket, and you pull out the thick roll of duct tape, before throwing it at the back of Todd’s head. The burly hands that grasp the front of Mark’s sweater instead, move to cradle the back of his head before he glares at you.
And he shoves William out of the way, instead, grabbing the ladder and beginning to shake it.
Your fear of heights kick in rather quickly, but not as quick as Mark grabbing the back of Todd’s T-shirt, fist raised and you yelp.
“Mark, no!”
Your voice stuns him, but it’s enough for Todd’s hand to connect with Mark’s nose.
You know it doesn’t hurt, but the shock of it still makes Mark’s eyes tear up. That’s regular anatomy.
“Shit!”
And your eyes widen when you spot that tungsten and diamond skull ring on Todd’s middle finger.
𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒
“I’m sorry for… You know, getting you punched.”
Mark hums softly, wincing when you press a cold cloth against his nose, clearing away the blood and he watches you carefully.
Your brows furrow in concentration, you chew at your bottom lip as you try to be as gentle as you can. And you’re just so pretty. Long lashes, big doe eyes and such soft lips, glossy with whatever smells so sickeningly sweet that it’s making his head hurt. And Mark looks up at you, one of your hands holding his chin to keep his head steady, while your hand cleans at his nose.
And his hand moves, resting on the fat of your thigh.
“You’ve got really pretty eyes…” Mark murmurs softly. “They’re like… something you’d find in nature.”
He swallows, his heart pounding when he feels the way your grip on his chin shifts, your cheeks heating up just enough for him to feel the change in your temperature.
“Uh… Thank you. You’ve got a really nice Cupid’s bow.” You respond, and damn it, you wish you didn’t.
Because your eyes glance down towards his lips without your consent, and you’re staring. And Mark can feel you staring.
But he’s staring too. Looking at your plump bottom lip, soft flesh raw bitten but so glossily inviting.
God. He hopes those aren’t the only pair of glossy lips on you.
And Mark’s fingers are digging into the flesh of your thighs, and he’s watching the sunlight dapple across your features and he thanks whoever decided on windows that face the door of the sick room.
His hand moves, and he’s about to cup the side of your face because he’s so painfully sure.
“Mark? Let’s go, buddy.”
Nolan’s intrusion makes Mark’s hand stop mid-air, his hand fisting just beside your face and he curls his lips inward, a deep pit of embarrassment and internal cringe forming in his belly and to save face, his knuckles brush against your cheek. And he makes a soft, explosion sound.
“See ya, kiddo.”
It’s affectionate and cute. But in a loser way.
Mark watches as you rise, pressing a kiss against his forehead and you smile up at Nolan, the man pressing a kiss against the crown of your head before looking at Mark.
“Uhhh.” Nolan snorts once you’re out of earshot. “Wanna tell me what that was?”
Mark cradles his head in his hands, body prickling with embarrassment and he is, in fact proved wrong about his belief that super-people don’t wanna crawl into holes.
And when it does, it's not like he really invites you to it, it just kind of happens. Mostly at parties that celebrate a good mission (They're just a poor excuse to get wasted), when you're sitting alone out on the front porch to get some fresh air.
Masky steps out periodically as well, but never really talks even though he'll sit next to you. You steal quck glances at him, your eyes scanning his side profile, the way he always seems to frown at something, the way his eyes glide over the scenery in front of you.. it's rare to see Tim without his mask, but it's appreciated by you.
Eventually, he pulls out a half-squished pack of cigarettes and offers you one, asking: "You smoke?" If you do take one, he'd snicker and say something along the lines of "You should stop, kid. Worst thing to get addicted to."
Frankly, he does not really care — But you liked to think that he meant it when it came to you. Something in your twists and turns everytime Tim looks at you with his deep, brown eyes like it means something to him to have your company. It's.. a nice feeling. A feeling you can't register just yet. You just know it's nice to imagine you're somehow important to him.
Then, he'll light his cigarette with this useless lighter he has to keep shaking to even work for a second. You can see how he increasingly gets frustrated with it — That's why he doesn't even bother with yours and just gestures you to come closer to him. With your own cigarette stuck between your lips, you hesitantly do what Tim wants and that's when he unexpectedly cups the side of your face to bring you closer.
He pressed the lit end of his cig against your unlit one and immediately let go of you again when the flame sparked over. Quickly, you leaned back in the old wodden chaid again (That's actually starting to feel like it'll fall apart the longer you sit on it). "Thanks, Mas—"
Tim gave you a look that made you overthink the choice of your words again. His side eye was so sharp it could cut through anything, especially your confidence. "Tim..! Thank you, Tim."
Masky's expression softened when you corrected yourself and he raised his hand to ruffle your hair a bit. "You'll get used to it."
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