Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: I don't own Kenobi. He just takes care of the sick. In more
ways than one! ;)

Summary: You're sick. The General helps.

Sithly Viral Infection
-----------------------
You want to die. Literally. The fatigue started last week, but you worked
through it, knowing that being late on the General's expense reports would
be worse than being killed by a rabid wookiee. Damn how short-staffed your
office was. You were a biochemical researcher, not an accountant/secretary.
And now this. The viral infection to top all viral infections: Corellian
Flu.

Now, the Corellian flu had the dubious distinction of being "the kissing
disease," eliciting smirks and good-natured ribs from all of your
co-workers. Like you could help it that you picked up someone's glass and
started drinking out of it. Damn office. You wouldn't have done it if that
masochistic General Kenobi hadn't had you working late, chewing over HIS
expense reports when you should be in the lab researching the biochemical
weapons now employed by the Trade Federation.

Of course, you were still working on the damn reports in bed, trying to
pound out the numbers on your ancient portable datapad before the General
came stalking down the hall after them. However, your stomach had other
ideas and revolted, sending you to the bathroom, crawling more than running.
You hear the door creak open and hear a softly-accented voice asking if
you are okay. You don't recognize the voice, and wonder what good samaritan
is looking after you. You crack open your bathroom door and are greeted
with a set of shiny, FM boots leading into FM pants and and a billowy shirt,
all in black.

Damn, whoever this mystery man was, he was certainly easy on the eyes.
Dusky blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, clean-shaven, sensual blue-green
eyes. However, you get the distinct feeling that there's more to this man
than meets the eye.

"I'm sorry to come barging in when you are sick, but do you happen to have
my expense reports?" Oh sith in a bordello, it's the elusive General
Kenobi. He's glancing at you with concern, and for good reason. It's three
in the afternoon and you're in ratty old pajamas sprawled out along your
bathroom floor. Oh yeah, you're also paying homage to the porcelain god.
What a lovely picture you must be making.

"Yeah, on my bed. Uh, speaking of that...can you get me there?" The
General bends down, and you prepare to lean on him when he suddenly scoops
you into his arms. He cradles you and places you in the bed softly, tucking
you in.

"I don't want you moving until you're better, hear me? Damn, I had no idea
you were this sick. I'd have never ordered those reports. Besides, aren't
you a biochemist?" You nod your head weakly and he brushes his palm across
your forehead.

"You're burning alive. Here, let me take some of this." He places his
hands on your temples, drawing out as much of the infection as he can. When
he finishes, you feel much better. He leans in and brushes a kiss on your
cheek before snuggling into bed beside you, making sure you don't move with
a strong arm slung around your waist.

You awake what seems like days later. Glancing at your clock, you see that
it is three days after you went to sleep in the General's arms. As if on
cue, he comes barging in, angry that you're awake.

"You should be resting! Corellian flu is nothing to play with, you know.
You could run yourself down so that you'll never recover." He strong-arms
you back into bed, laying down beside you. You gaze into his open face, his
gentle eyes. Why in the world was he so concerned with the well-being of
one lowly biochemist turned secretary?

**Because I ran that biochemist-turned-secretary into the ground without
knowing a thing about her. I feel horrible about treating you the way I
did**

Damn, even in your mind he purrs. He strokes your side softly, trying to
convey a sense of warmth and comfort in his touch. He didn't have to work
hard, because you're already feeling tons better. You lean over to kiss
him, his eyes widening as you do so.

"Glad to know lowly employees like me are appreciated." The General laughs,
and pulls off your silky nightgown. Suddenly you realize he's been here
every night, bathing and feeding you. You want to give him something for
his troubles, but you have no idea what.

He pulls off his loose sleep pants, flush against you, skin touching skin.
It's like poetry in motion as he slides down your body, lavishing you with
kisses and caresses. He stops in certain places, eleciting a symphony of
moans and sighs from your worn-out vocal cords. Damn Jedi, he knew just
what to do for you and you were clueless about what to do for him.

**Stay still and let me worship you. That's all I ask**

You oblige willingly, nearly coming off the bed when his tongue brushes
along your clit. He thrusts deep inside you with two fingers, all the while
stroking your clit with that dangerously-talented mouth. As the waves of
orgasm crash over you, he relents, eliciting a mewl from your lips. He
smiles, pressing a sticky finger to your lips, and thrusts deep inside you,
his cock pressing against your cervix. He thrusts over and over, using the
Force to center himself and hold on as long as possible.

He makes you come again, merely latching onto your breast and suckling
having done the trick while thrusting into you with a haphazard rhythm.
Finally, he can hold on no longer and spills himself deep inside you. He
rolls away and pulls you against his body as you fall into a deep sleep.

The next morning you awake to the sounds of chanting to the porcelain god.
Opening a lazy eye, you see the General bent over the toilet, his face a
study in misery. He looks at you and smiles weakly, speaking only three
words:

"Sithly viral infection!"
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