#that obi wouldn't be the worst patient of all time

[mayxthexforce]

The first thought to cross Obi-Wan's mind is that at least, given that they're connected on a nervous level, if Maul bites his cock off for what Obi-Wan just did, he's going to feel the pain of it too. Thankfully, that doesn't happen. But the sudden, too-firm grip over his member makes Obi-Wan's breath catch in his throat in a way that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with bracing himself for the worst. His body relaxes slowly as Maul resumes pumping his cock.

"I didn't prod anything you wouldn't want me to," is all Obi-Wan says, not bothering to hold back a satisfied smile at what he's achieved.

Then, there's the question, spoken in such a vulnerable way that goes straight to Obi-Wan's cock, makes him twitch in Maul's hold, makes the flushed tip of his cock leak pre that makes the motions so much smoother and better. Once again, Obi-Wan is tilting his head, this time back, and closing his eyes to allow himself a moment to just feel the pleasure as it zaps through his body.

"I am not a selfish lover," Obi-Wan points out matter-of-factly, his voice still hoarse with lust and need. "If I'm going to use your mouth, I'll make sure you get something out of it. Letting you borrow my cock seems like a fair exchange."

He might not have as much experience in this sort of situation as his carefully crafted reputation might make people think, but he has enough to know that both parties are supposed to leave such encounters feeling sated and having received as much as they gave. No matter that in this case, the other half of this duo so happens to be a sworn rival who Obi-Wan cut in half and who has, time and time again, attempted to end his life. Obi-Wan isn't going to start making exceptions. Right now, they're not rivals. Right now, they're something else that he is not brave enough to give a name to, but can acknowledge as 'more than a rivalry' in the privacy of his own mind. Once this is over, they'll probably go back to their usual dynamic. But in this moment, Obi-Wan is sticking to what he feels is the right way to do things for this new, previously unexplored dynamic: and that means Maul gets to feel good too.

The Order is really going to have his head for this, if they find out. But what they don't know won't hurt them.

Obi-Wan reaches down again, fingers slotting between frontal horns as he gently holds Maul's head, moves him closer to his shaft, can't tear his gaze away from those lips and licks his own before swallowing to try and rid himself of the nervous knot in his throat. The anticipation is maddening, and as it turns out, Obi-Wan isn't as patient through this, as he is through everything else.

"C'mon," he breathes out, pleading and a little demanding. "Show me what you can do."

Obi-Wan doesn't know what he was expecting when he reached down. Probably a bite. But he was definitely not expecting to watch Maul lean into his hand and nuzzle like some touch starved creature getting affection for the first time. Something tells him he has to keep that comparison to himself or he will get bitten, and Obi-Wan agrees with that little wise voice at the back of his head, still holding onto rationality for dear life. After all, Maul is far too close to his crotch for Obi-Wan to want to risk a bite near that area.

"More like, I'm afraid of what will happen to the mood if your horn breaks against my thigh," he teases back. Obi-Wan doubts he has thigh muscles powerful enough to break solid bone attached to a skull- but hey, that doesn't mean he's just going to find out. Especially not when it comes to Maul's horns. He doesn't need to give Maul more reasons to want to kill him.

A sigh of relief leaves Obi-Wan when his pants and underwear are finally pulled down enough to free his cock from their restrictive tightness. His cock leans erect against his lower belly, flushed, uncut and slightly crooked and suddenly he feels a little insecure– but that feeling quickly goes away the moment he watches Maul breathe him in. The sight is downright obscene. The feeling of Maul's hot breath is enough to make his cock twitch and make goosebumps rise across his thighs. Then, he gets to feel Maul's fingers wrap around his girth. The firm but curious pace makes Obi-Wan's eyes roll back and slide shut as his chin hits his chest.

His eyes remain closed, but his brows furrow as Obi-Wan focuses on the force. There's using the force in questionable ways to achieve something, and then there is THIS– this is a beyond inappropriate use for it, but he can't bring himself to care.

Obi-Wan is many things, he's an excellent pilot who hates flying, a talented duelist who doesn't like to fight, a negotiator and often Council-appointed emissary of the Order who would rather sit alone reading than spend time around others, and a Jedi skilled in the ways of manipulation through the force, despite how little he uses that skill. He's using it now, not to get anything out of Maul– or at least not anything useful for anyone but himself, in this specific moment. He's not even focusing his efforts in the part of Maul's brain that might have gotten him any useful information, but on the part that's connected to his spine, to his nerves, the part that registers what the body is feeling. The one part that remained intact despite what Obi-Wan did to him. The connection to a lower body was severed, but it takes little effort, even while being jerked off, to grab that severed rope and connect it to himself, to create a bridge between what Obi-Wan is feeling and Maul's hypothalamus.

It's quite the achievement. One that nobody but himself will ever find worthy of praise, because there's no way Obi-Wan is telling anyone that he used the force for that. But he's a giver. He doesn't want to be the only one enjoying the moment.

He jerks his hips up into Maul's hold, feels the pleasure travel through his body like a fire spreading through a dry field, and there's a curious look in his eyes as he manages to focus them on Maul's again and stares expectantly but patiently, waiting to see if his plan succeeded.

[sabraeal]

All Pain Will Turn to Medicine: Part 2

In an unfortunate but not altogether unforeseeable turn of events, the boy is neither patient nor mild-mannered.

Nor, Shirayuki is convinced, is he entirely human.

That first night, Shirayuki sits with her heart in her throat and her hand in his, hoping that infection won’t take hold. It is so easy for even well-cared for wounds to turn, and his were not. There’s no way to know how long he’s had them, or how he got them, or how far he walked to get to Herr Kruger’s barn; they just have to hope that enough’s been cut away that the alcohol and herbs can handle the rest.

She rubs soothing circles onto the back of his hand with her thumb, just like how Oma would when she fell ill with the winter flu. It is possibly the only patch of skin on his entire body that is not scraped or scarred below his neck. His breath is fitful even under the anesthetic; his limbs twitching as if he’s running, as if even in dreams he cannot stop. Each time his appendages drop limply back to the mattress his brow furrows, and she wants to know his story, why even asleep he cannot rest.

Herr Anda frowns when she tells him so, looking less in those moments like a curmudgeonly surgeon and more like –

More like someone with a story of his own. “Not all stories are fairy tales, girl,” he tells her gruffly. “You’d do well to leave him alone. The less you know, the easier it will be when he leaves.”

Her hand clenches hard around his, and the boy lets out a grunt. His hand squeeze back, weak.

“You think he’ll leave?” There’s more challenge in her words than she means to give, but she lets it lie, refuses to back down. He always says, you’re foolish to see the best in everyone, but --

But that’s only because he’s so determined to see the worst.

Herr Anda hesitates over his notes, face pinched. “I think it would be hard for that boy to stay anywhere.”

“He has to heal.” His face is knotted under her gaze, anxious. Wherever he’s from, he shouldn’t go back. “I don’t think he has anywhere else to go. He should stay.”

Her master raises his eyebrows, expression mild. “That’s not our choice.”

She doesn’t understand – they’re his physicians; no one with any sense would go against a medical recommendation.

“Stay alert,” Herr Anda warns her as he blows out the lamps, leaving her with only a single one on the table beside her. “He’s had enough roku to be out until morning but…” He shrugs. “Keep your wits about you.”

Shirayuki is young, only just in her thirteenth summer, and it makes her – careless. Incautious.

Breath, at this stage, is the best indicator of health. His starts ragged, shallow – doubtlessly from the roku – but as she watches the rise and fall of the bandages wrapped around his chest, it begins to even, to grow deeper. The moon has disappeared from the sky, but the horizon is still an uninterrupted indigo, and the pressure behind her eyes reminds her that she has had hardly more than a handful of hours sleep. Each of his breaths becomes a weight on her eyelids, making them sink lower with each exhale.

His hand is warm and oddly comforting in her grasp; at the edge of sleep she wonders if she will feel it again when he wakes, or if he will leave as her master predicts. She wonders if she’ll ever see the terrible stitchwork she inflicted on him, whether he’ll forgive her for it.

She blinks, closing her eyes just for a second, she’s sure –

If the wrench in her shoulders isn’t what wakes her, than the knee at her back surely is.

Her eyes snap open, trying to take stock of her situation. “What –”

“Where’s my stuff?” growls the man above her. Her heart is trying to escape her chest, but all her thoughts are bent to the boy, wondering where he could be, what this man could have done with him --

He presses harder and repeats, “Where are my things? What have you done with them?”

His words finally pierce the fog of her sleep, and -- and she cranes her neck around, making out the childish roundness still in his jaw, the sharp cut of his cheekbones --

It is the boy.

“You should be resting!” she blurts out, indignant. She already did a terrible job on his stitches once, and she is in no mood to do it again for this foolishness.

She sees his eyelashes flutter in the shadows. “Where’s my stuff?”

“I don’t know,” she tells him; it’s not quite a lie – she doesn’t know where they are for sure, but she knows Herr Anda well enough to take a guess. “You’re injured.”

His eyes narrow. “Obviously not as bad as you thought. My stuff, where–?”

“You need to rest,” she pushes. “At least a week with that chest wound –”

He reels back a little, not moving his knee, but lifting pressure. “I –” He shakes himself, bringing his weight back to bear. “I heal fast. Now where is my stuff? Or – my, um, clothes.”

She feels skin against her shoulders, right where her shift drops to a square neckline, and she is suddenly and completely aware that he is not wearing anything but a pair of Herr Anda’s linen underdrawers. The matrons had always clucked after her master, calling him too skinny, but oh, what a sight this boy would be in their eyes; they’d had to pull the laces as tight as they would go, and even still they hung off on him. In the end they’d had to used twine to get them to stay on.

Shirayuki wonders idly if he’s notices. Maybe he doesn’t care.

She does have a good idea about something he would care about though.

Her head rams right into the heart of his scar, right where the stitches are more ragged and the skin most raw, and he flies off her with an unearthly howl. The bed is narrow, hardly more than a cot, and with his injuries and the lingering effect of the liquor, the boy’s balance hardly stands a chance against gravity. he lands hard on his tailbone, gasping for air. He is still groaning when Herr Anda storms in, dressed only in his nightclothes.

“I told you girl,” he snaps as they roll their patient back into bed, newly sedated. “Keep your wits about you.”

It is Shirayuki who acts as a voice of moderation when it comes to sedatives – Herr Anda is of the opinion that he likes people better when they’re unconscious – but this new patient fights every moment he is awake and – and Shirayuki is tired of restitching the wounds on his sides. When her master waves the bottle tauntingly from the stock room, hard berries thunking against the glass, she just pulls her mouth into a grim line and nods.

It’s for the best.

Their patient spends the better part of a week weaving in an out of consciousness, only allowed to wake to eat and void himself. He also manages to find some time to complain, but it’s muddled, indistinct. She can’t make out what he says, but she’s sure it’s not complimentary.

Herr Anda does not have her stay overnight with him again.

“Between the two of us,” he says, leaning heavily on his cane, “I am almost certainly the lighter sleeper.”

She does insist that he not stay alone; he may be a man, but he is not young, and with his leg…

Well, she is young, and no slouch when it comes to giving boys the heave-ho, and if their patient’s stitches hadn’t been so fresh…she would have had a much larger problem.

Herr Anda sets aside space in the loft for her. A simple bed made of walnut, and a warm quilt sewn in the local style makes up her personal corner, as well as a washstand and screen.

“I’d meant to anyway,” he grumbles when she stares. “You never know when we’ll have a difficult patient. And you’re getting too old to be walking alone at night.”

It’s her watch when they decide to wean him off the roku.

“A good thing you’re so eager to know his story,” Anda drawls as she waves him up the stairs, urging him to bed. She knows he isn’t sleeping well in the patient room, and she’s not about to let him make Frau Kino’s heart powder with his head as thick as day-old stew. “I’m sure he’ll give you a real earful when he comes off.”

“You drugged me,” the boy says, mouth twisted up in a scowl. He’s a petulant thing, all skin and sinew. Mere minutes into his lucidity she’s uncertain of whether she’ll come to like him at all.

“It was for your own safety,” she tells him evenly, forcing a friendly smile onto her face. “You were fighting treatment, so we --”

“I didn’t need help.”

Blood rushes to her cheeks, but she bites down on a retort. He’s a cornered animal; he’d lash out at anyone, and she’s just the closest target. She knows this, Herr Anda explained it, but --

But it doesn’t make it any more pleasant to take.

She changes tack. “Do you have a name? We’ve just been calling you the patient, and now that you’re awake --”

“You mean now that you’ve stopped drugging me?” She bristles, but he goes on, “Don’t worry about it, Red. I’m not sticking --”

“My name is Shirayuki.”

His mouth hangs open, jaw working as he stares. She’s as surprised at he is, she hadn’t meant to speak like that to him; that’s not...proper bedside manner.

“I --” Her mouth works, hand dropping from her hair. “Don’t call me that. Please. I’m Shirayuki.”

He watches her, wary. “Right. Well, Miss, I can take care of myself, so --”

“Take care of yourself?” She fixes him with her most unimpressed glare. He’s nearly as white at the sheets, only the naturally darker cast of his skin keeping him from that ghastly pallor. Still, his complexion is sallow, sunken; he’s half a skeleton with only broth to feed him for a week. “You were barely conscious when Shou brought you in, bleeding out in Herr Kruger’s barn.”

He lifts his nose. “I was resting.”

“You passed out next to a pile of --” Horse shit. “--Manure.”

His mouth rumples at that; apparently he hadn’t remembered that part. “I didn’t need any help. I heal fast.”

She stares. “Your chest had to be sewn shut.”

He huffs out a laugh, rubbing at the bandage over his chest. “Some job they did on it too.”

Heat rises up her neck, and she knows this feeling -- she’s about to do something stupid. “All right.”

Shirayuki marches over to the door, swinging it open. The boy blinks, eyes darting between her and the open door. His hand spasms on the sheet covering him.

She keeps her expression a flat as parchment, trying not to let it roll up at the corners. “If you can make it to the door, you can go.”

His eyes narrow. It’s a challenge.

Her mouth twitches. “Go ahead,” she tells him mildly. She puts her back to the table, hands gripping the edge. “I won’t stop you.”

One side of his mouth creeps up. He thinks she’s underestimated him. He thinks he can do it.

He puts his hand flat on the mattress, rolling a little to get the moment to get to sitting and –

He overbalances. His back bows and his legs don’t follow, and then he’s a tangle of sheets and wide eyes as he hits the floor with a thump.

“How’s it going down there?” She asks after a long minute

“Ughhhh,” he replies eloquently.

Her lips pull wide, and she pushes off the desk. “I’ll go get Herr Anda.”

“Obi,” he says, after Anda’s heaved him onto the bed.

She’s changing the poultice on his side, not expecting to hear much more than his hisses as she pries the moist herbs from his side. She wonders if that some sort of curse word, wherever he’s from. “Hm?”

“That’s, um --” he clears his throat, awkward -- “that’s what you can call me. Obi.”

She blinks. “Oh.”

“It’s not my real name,” he tells her, watching her from the corner of his eyes. “I have aliases.”

She hums, feigning interest.

“And many secrets.”

Her eyebrows raise, mild. “Is that so?”

He hisses as she pulls the bandages off his chest, muttering “You could act a little impressed.”

The wound in still an angry pink, healing, but not well. He won’t be thanking her any time soon for this work.

“Obi.” She tries the word, as if it might have a taste. “That’s what you want to be called?”

His nose wrinkles. “Not if you’re going to say it like that.”

A handful of days later, he snaps, “It’s not ohhhh-bee, Miss, it’s o-bee.”

She’s not really sure of the difference. “What does it matter, if it’s not your real name?” she bites back, and his mouth twists into a pout.

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

Her days take on a rhythm while Obi convalesces. Her nights are spent at Herr Anda’s; it’s no longer necessary for someone to stay with Obi at all hours, but his dressings need to be changed frequently, especially the one on his chest, and it is easier for Shirayuki to navigate the stairs in the dark than a man with a cane and a limp.

Her days are split between caring for Obi, which he hates, and her duties in the shop, which he likes even less. It’s just the sort of contrary behavior she’s come to expect from him.

He at least had not lied when he said he healed fast; less than a week sees her eying the stitches on his sides and face for removal, though his chest is still pink and ugly and ragged. It’s scabbed in a few spots where there stitches weren’t tight enough, though it does not smell of anything but the bitter herbs she lays over it for healing.

A week is not so long, but it long enough for her to forget why she particularly enjoyed her hours at the physician’s, long enough to make her forget her particularly dogged problem she had made at Beltane.

Herr Anda goes into the market for the afternoon -- the miller’s wife has been having contractions for the past three nights, and he’s worried she might deliver too early – and Shirayuki is left to tend both the store and their charge on her own. He is in as rare a form as ever, propped up on his pillows so that he can see her through the door and needling her as she stocks the shelves. He has a particular gift of making his voice carry without straining in the slightest.

She’s hardly listening; last she heard he was cross because she was clomping like a cow, a problem he wasn’t so much interested in fixing as he was requesting that she complete the illusion with a cow bell and suitable lowing. The shop is quiet, but there’s always a list of work to complete, written in Anda’s cramped hand. Today’s runs front and back; he’s concerned they’ve run behind treating their troublesome patient.

It’s almost a relief for the bell to the ring.

“Good afternoon –” Her words fail her when they fall upon the round face filling the door. “Pavo!”

“Hi there, Shirayuki.” He shuffles his over-large feet on the floor, tracking in the sort of dirt that Herr Anda would have her on her knees to scrub later. “I hadn’t seen you in a little while.”

“I—I’ve been working.” Her hands make useless gestures in the air. She doesn’t know how to explain that she just hasn’t wanted to see him either. There’s no nice way to tell a boy he kisses like a fish.

He nods, hat in his hand. “That’s what your grans said. Said you’d been working close with Herr Anda lately, so I-I thought I might come by and ask if you might – you might want some sort of break –”

“Pavo, I’m very…” She casts a look back at the door. “Busy. With work. Right now.”

His brows draw together, taking in the empty floor. “There isn’t anyone here, though. Surely you could step out for a stroll. I’ll buy you a pretzel.”

“Pavo –”

One of his hands fist at his side. “If you’re afraid of Herr Anda giving you a switching or something, I can talk to him for you.”

Her eyes widen. Is that what everyone thinks of him? That he’d raise a hand to her? “That’s not –”

“Ain’t right, the way he has you cooped up in here.” He puffs up his chest, like he’s some big man. “You’re lucky you have me, elsewise you wouldn’t be married until you’re thirty, being his apprentice.”

She frowns. “I’m not –”

“Now come on,” he says, fingers banding around her wrist. He’s not holding her hard, but it’s definitely…firm.

“I don’t think –”

A hand lands heavy on her shoulder, jostling her wrist out of Pavo’s hand. “Is there a problem, Miss?”

She blinks. Miss? “I –”

Pavo frowns, clutching his wrist, and – and it wasn’t from Obi’s hand on her shoulder than he let go. She stares as the red blossoming under his fingers. That wasn’t some light slap on the wrist. “Who is this?”

“This is, um, Obi.” And he shouldn’t be standing. “He’s, ah…”

“Helping Herr Anda for a while,” he tells Pavo with a too-sharp smile. “I’d just gone in the back. We’re all out of feverfew, by the way.”

“Oh, ah…thank you.”

“So as you can see,” Obi drawls, arm winding around her shoulder, supportive instead of possessive. “We can’t spare Miss for a moment.”

“Oh.” Pavo coughs, sending a dark look at the boy behind her. “Yes. Sorry to bother you.”

He is hardly out the door when Obi slumps over, nearly sending them both careening into the counter.

“I hope it was worth it,” she says, helping him back to his bed. “You’ve probably ripped a stitch being up like this.”

He grins as his back hits the mattress. “Very.”

She frowns, wanting to scold him, but instead she says, “Thank you.”

His eyes watch her, wary and...something else. “Consider us even.

As thankful as she is for his intervention, his knowing that he can be upright becomes more of a hassle than its worth. She wakes up one morning to see that he has sprung himself in the night, nowhere to be found.

She could wake Herr Anda, but she knows he will only shrug, only tell her they can’t keep him here if he doesn’t want to be. And she -- she understands that, she does, but --

But Obi doesn’t know what’s good for him. She can’t let him go off by himself.

She throws her shawl over her nightgown instead, hoping that none of the neighbors have woken inspired for a pre-drawn stroll. The last thing she needs is more rumors of her to start; young Shirayuki caught in her nightclothes coming back from a tryst, don’t they start young nowadays.

The streets in front of the apothecary are empty, and she lets out a word that would make Oma scold her and have Opa threatening to wash out her mouth with soap. She doesn’t often use them -- she has little occasion to, when Herr Anda is so liberal with their application -- but she is not above a little...verbal release, if the moment calls for it.

Running around in a linen shift in the dead of night, trying to hunt down and injured and annoying boy seems to fit the part nicely.

It’s only when she’s about to give up, tears of frustration gathering in the corners of her eyes, that she spots him. He’s found his own clothes; they’re little more than rags by this point, his shirt practically tatters and his pants still faintly stained with red.

She should be glad that he at least wasn’t going to steal Herr Anda’s clothes, but -- but she’s not. She’s livid that he’s tried to leave at all, and that he’d reject their kindness on top has her approaching him like thunder, like a storm that will shake his foundations until he sees sense --

And then she sees his face.

He is not even aware of her, his face pressed so tightly to the glass that his breath leaves fog behind. From where she stands she can see Shou lumbering through his shop, heaving a great tray of breads into the cheery fires of his oven. The smell wafting from the door is something just short of heavenly. And Obi --

Shirayuki has never seen such naked want on anyone’s face.

Somewhere in the cage of her ribs, something aches.

“Obi,” she calls, softly. He twitches, just barely.

She comes closer, catching him by the elbow, ignoring how he jumps under her palm.

“Come on.” Her hand drifts down the sinewy length of his arm until she can wind her fingers gently through his. For once, he looks at her, though it is inscrutable, uncomprehending. “It’s time to come back.”

Herr Anda is waiting for them.

His mouth is a forbidding line as he takes in Obi’s ragged appearance, in the way he’s sagged over Shirayuki’s shoulders. Somewhere between the bakery and home, the adrenaline of his escape had worn off, and she’d been left to drag him through the streets. Herr Anda’s gaze lingers over her as well; the stained shift, the bedraggled state of her hair.

He frowns.

“Well,” he says, as if he’s savoring the punishment to come. “If you’re well enough to go gallivanting off through the town, then you’re well enough to help out here.”

Her master steps close with a sniff, and his face crumples with distaste. “Though not without a bath first.”

Shirayuki is sent out at first light to buy Obi some new clothes, ones meant to fit his knobby body.

“But with room to grow,” Anda tells her, strangely concerned. “He’ll fatten up in no time once he’s well again.”

She knows it’s a chore to keep her busy; Obi’s not yet strong enough to lever himself into and out of the tub, not without risking the stitches on his chest, and he would no doubt be embarrassed to have her in the room while he tried. She takes her time, letting Herr Schneider’s daughters show her a wide selection of items before she makes her choice.

Her selections are...conservative. White shirts, black vests, black pants, black boots. All things she’s sure won’t offend, though Obi will pretend they do anyway.

They’re disappointed, she can tell. Suki gives her an especially disapproving look as she tallies her bill, and when she asks if there is anything else she would like, her tone is filled with such reproach that Shirayuki find her gaze skittering over the items behind the till, trying to find something interesting.

Her gaze hooks on something a soft, verdant green. “This too,” she says, throwing the scarf on top of her pile. It’s plush beneath her fingers, almost...comforting.

Suki smiles. “There now, that’s better. A fine choice.”

It is always possible for disaster to strike, but Shirayuki certainly did not expect  a flood.

Placing her bags up on the counter, she edges around the puddle spilling out across the apothecary’s floor. There are splatters on the wall, droplets working their way down around the invisible flaws in the plaster.

“Ah, Meister?” she calls out, tip-toeing toward the bath. It seems the origin of the high water is in here.

She taps lightly at the shut door. “Meister Anda? Is --”

It swing open under the weight of her fist, and --

And Herr Anda is soaked to the skin, down to just his shirt and buckskins, what looks like the fine cloth of his waistcoat wadded up in the corner and his boots and cane abandoned on a higher shelf. His hair drips rivulets down his neck, and Obi --

Obi is shirtless, braced up on a window higher than a boy with his wounds should be able to climb, bone dry --

She gapes. “What happened?”

Herr Anda lets out an indignant huff. “Our new employee is part cat, is what.”

The hiss Obi lets out doesn’t do much to refute the claim. “You said I’d have a bath. You were trying to drown me.”

Shirayuki turns to her master. Herr Anda balks. “You can’t be serious? Drowning? Do I look like I’m a pig farmer with runt? If I were trying to kill him, I’d just use poison.”

Obi makes an alarmed noise.

“Oh please,” Herr Anda scoffs. “Don’t be so sensitive. You wouldn’t even know it had happened.”

Not for the first time Shirayuki wonders at his eviction from the palace.

“No,” he continues crossly, “the problem here is that our patient here thought I meant sponge bath.” Herr Anda arches an eyebrow. “He’s apparently never had a good soak before. A shock, I’m sure.”

Obi’s tone is just as prickly when he calls down, “There’s no reason to need that much water!”

She pulls a face, throwing a pointed gaze at her master.

He splutters, throwing up his hands. “You try to get him in.”

It takes the both of them; Shirayuki to shame him into coming close, and Anda to shove him into the tub.

“Shouldn’t you turn around, Miss?” Obi asks plaintively, looking nothing more like a half-drowned kitten in the water. He’s only in because he was too concerned with trying to protect her modesty, holding one hand over his crotch as Anda levered him into the bathwater.

Her master barks out a laugh. “Come now, boy. She’s a physician’s apprentice.” A corner of his mouth ticks upward, the closest Anda comes to a grin. “She’s seen a cock before. Adult ones. Bigger than your tackle, that’s for sure.”

For once, Obi is the one to flush.

Freshly scrubbed and trimmed, Shirayuki has to admit Obi doesn’t look half bad.

It’s too bad most of the neighborhood girls thinks so too.

She expects him to scare them off with a scowl, but instead he pauses in his sweeping to give each one a sly grin and a wink. Some of them are bold, catching him behind the shelves where she can’t see to exchange pleasantries.

“He brings in business,” Herr Anda says when she complains. So much for help from that quarter.

“Make time on your own time,” she snaps after she catches the grocer’s daughter with her hand pressed to his chest, their heads bent together.

He laughs. “I’m getting my work done.” He leans close. “Why, are you jealous, Little Miss?”

She pulls a face, and he only laughs louder. “As if I’d want your flopping fish tongue in my mouth.”

That hits a nerve.

“My tongue isn’t a flopping fish,” he hisses through his teeth a handful of days later, as she navigates the market with her basket of marshgrass. She’s frankly not sure what he’s talking about until she sees the annoyance on his face. So that is what his poor attitude had been about lately.

“Of course it is,” she tells him with the full authority of her thirteen summers. “All boys kiss like they’re gasping for breath on a dock.”

He grimaces. “That’s...you...”

“While we’re here, why don’t you go flop it over there.” She points to the fruit stall, manned by one of Herr Kramer’s pretty blonde daughters. “We could use some oranges for cheap.”

She’s watching him stomp over to the stall, lips curled in satisfaction, when a shadow falls over her. She looks up, blinking. Shou shuffles beside her, looking too big for his own skin.

“Sh--” She catches herself. “Herr Beck?”

“These will go stale,” he says in his gruff way, hands gentle as he shoves a long loaf and a handful of sweet rolls into her hands. “You should take them.”

“I --”

He’s already hurrying away before she can thank him, and for a long moment she’s confused, wondering just why he’s give her the bread when --

When Obi arrives, taunt fresh on his lips, shriveling the moment he sees the the bread in her hands. A shadow of the hunger he showed oh so many nights ago passes over his face and she --

She understands.

At a month he is well enough to walk on his own for some distance, and she feels…strange. That he might leave.

“There’s nothing else for me here,” he tells her, grinning as always but she knows him well enough now to see the sadness in it. “It’s not as if –”

The bell rings above the door, and they both look up to see Shou filling the door. He’s nervous, shuffling his great feet on the jamb, but he steels himself. He looks directly at Obi and says, “I’d like to have a talk with you.”

[fanfic-obsessed]

In Clones we trust

After Melida/Daan, Obi Wan learned to distrust the Healers. His time with the Young had left him distrustful of adults in general, but then several of the temple bound healer trainees react badly to the scars he earned in various battles (in their defense much of the reactions was horror at scars that should have been easily treated, Obi Wan simply ascribed the worst possible meaning to their reactions). This is compounded when, over the course of decades, almost all the healers found time to lecture Obi Wan on his self care habits (of which he has none), but without actually giving him any support to figure out what healthy habits are (Look, Obi Wan hasn’t felt safe to fall fully into sleep since he was in the sewers with Cerasi and Nield to watch his back. Telling him to get more sleep is true but not helpful).

Then the Clone Wars arrived.  Obi Wan was handed a Battalion. At the first available opportunity the head medic, Med, makes a point to sit down with Obi Wan. He knows that the Force gives his General the ability to do things that Med would consider insane and impossible.  He wants to get a baseline so that can make sure he can treat Obi Wan correctly.  And Obi Wan may not trust healers, but Medics were different.  Med gets his scans. It helps that Obi Wan quickly learned to trust the troopers, his men.

Med talks to Obi Wan about what exactly he can use the Force for, what he can heal in himself. When it would be realistic for Med to step in. What the effects of various types of suppressants would be with Obi Wan using the Force to take care of basic needs and what to do if he gets dosed.  Because Med’s every step focused on what Obi Wan’s reality actually is instead of what he wanted it to be, Obi Wan is much more likely to go to Medical and let himself be treated. 

Sometime later he sits down with Obi Wan, and Cody (with Obi Wan’s permission), and briefly goes over what Cortisol, the stress hormone is, what it does to a body in the long term, and healthy vs unhealthy levels.  He shows Obi Wan his cortisol level, which is in dangerously high territory, even with the Force.  Med goes, “In a perfect world I would want your numbers to be a quarter what it is, but in a perfect world I wouldn't be patching my brothers to go back to battle.” and “Based on the scans we’ve taken if you can get two more hours of sleep per week, your cortisol levels should drop below the extremely damaging point. If you can do that and get one more hour of something you find relaxing every three days it should drop those levels into a high healthy.”

This, more than anything, was something Obi Wan had not been given by the healers. The temple healers focused on getting someone healthy, but often got too caught up in how to heal to think about what the patient thinks healthy should look like.  And Obi Wan might not know how to get something as nebulous as ‘more sleep’, but something concrete such as two more hours of sleep per week is a goal he can accomplish (It made him want to try ).

[meefy]

Thoughts on Ryuu + Autistic-coded Characters

Please no manga spoilers beyond Ch5. I finished the anime recently, and am already obsessed so please be kind and patient as I catch up! UPDATE: a manga-centric part 2!

This is going to be long, but I have too many thoughts to gush about here. It's SO RARE these days you see an autistic-coded character where 1) their autism is portrayed as an advantage that lets them fit in with others and benefit the community AND 2) where it's not a main part of the plot/gag. Ryuu for me fulfills passes these tests and thensome!

To begin, Ryuu's special interest in poison and herbs gets him a job doing something he loves and where others (his colleagues and the Prince himself) respect and trust him.  Indeed, we see him essentially telling Zen "People don't talk to me like a kid" and when Zen gives him advice, finishing with, "I wouldn't say that if you weren't a kid" we see how much Zen actually does respect Ryuu. In my experience anyways, if you have an advanced vocabulary and prefer the company of adults, you are automatically considered an adult, despite the fact that emotionally you are still a child. Zen’s words here so perfectly acknowledge the huge divide between how people think they should treat autistic kids who are "old souls/little professors" and how they actually may want to be treated; many of them still have interests and feelings that are common for their age. Zen and his friends treat Ryuu like a kid, but also with the respect that would come to anyone with the position he holds, and I am HERE for it.

Then, we see all the subtle autistic traits that his character has that don't scream TOKEN AUTISTIC CHARACTER, but still stay true to many of our experiences. For instance, in the manga, Sorata Akiduki says Ryuu likes big pieces of paper, and we see him copying existing information down in a way that makes sense for him. He likes things all laid out to see; he's clearly a visual learner, and a visual person. Ryuu blatantly says that he doesn't understand people very well, and he is stunned when Zen says it's okay to ask if you don't understand someone's feelings or intentions (which, as an aside, made me love Zen even more) - Ryuu, like many people autistic or otherwise, believes we should innately understand how to read people. It's therefore a relief when someone says it's okay to ask!

One scene that struck me fondly was seeing Ryuu sleeping under his desk, despite the fact he undoubtedly has just as nice quarters as Shirayuki has (if not nicer). I LOVE laying on the floor (Texture™ and Pressure™) and I was so excited to see a character do it too! Another scene I relate to is when Obi helps Ryuu climb the tree, and Ryuu tells him that he has never climbed a tree before. From this I took a leap and assumed he isn't especially coordinated/balanced/athletic (like many of us autistic people; I am 25 and have never climbed a tree either). Lastly, in the Japanese original and English dub, he speaks in a consistently flat and monotone voice, without making him an unempathetic, emotionless robot. But most importantly of all is that NOBODY CRITICIZES OR MOCKS ANY OF THESE TRAITS. They're accepted and seen as "Oh, that's just how Ryuu is, and we love him with it instead of in spite of it."

The last scene I want to talk about is the one with the guard who refuses Ryuu's help because he's "obsessed with poisons and just wants guinea pigs". This scene broke my heart because I related to it so much - if you are an autistic person with a special interest that neurotypicals deem "scary", you are immediately feared and shunned, even if you use it for your own benevolent enjoyment at worst and to help others at best. I was really fascinated by human mutations and terminal illnesses growing up, and obviously everyone around me thought I was weird and creepy. Me, I just thought it was interesting and wanted to become a surgeon at the time and help others, but nobody understood or believed that. So when Shirayuki stands up for Ryuu (because she understands the benefits of understanding poison) I was SO happy. Characters defending autistic characters vs. mocking them (looking at you Big Bang Theory)?? LOVE IT. And what breaks my heart the most is Ryuu doesn't think she should be upset. He's used to people fearing him by now, and thinks she's mad at him instead. He's confused when she leaves, until the end where she tells him she's not mad and they get to work positively together. Seeing neurodiversity portrayed in a positive and empowering manner, where misunderstandings happen and characters aren't ridiculed for them but speak honestly and openly to clear them up, is so refreshing. Media where the autistic character has friends and is given a place to thrive and use their neurodiversity to help others and gain a sense of fullfillment is so validating! It's rare to see, and watching Ryuu's character done so well means so much to me. I'm excited to see more of him in the manga!!

[prophetwithaz]

Starlight (Obi-wan x reader)

a/n: the reader in the story is LEGAL. DO NOT clown in my inbox. i also haven't written fic since i was 13 so this is e h. i finally posted it after @milleniumvalcon hyped me up.

summary: Despite being worn out after work, Obi-wan senses your anxiety about your training, and comes to your quarters to make sure you're doing alright.

word count: 1.5k

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Obi-wan had had a long day. It seemed that at each turn, the day tore itself in two. The discussions among politicians made him sick. Despite the fact that he desired peace more than anything, he couldn't fathom any leader being able to willfully harm their own people. Tensions at the temple ran high. Too much to do, and too little time, as per usual.

All he wanted to do was to curl up in a ball and start a new day with some semblance of clarity. You felt the same, having spent the whole day training. You were drained, quite frankly, and you were tired of preparing for the trials every day. You wondered if in a few years you would even be good enough to face the council. Maybe being a jedi wasn't for you. Tossing and turning, you lie awake. Anxiety felt like television static: no particular feeling or thought, but all encompassing and overstimulating nonetheless.

Obi-wan could feel the disturbance in the force from the uneasiness. It made it difficult for him to relax, sensing the pain coming from just a few doors down, despite his heavy, aching eyes. So he did what he wished his colleagues would do more often and left his quarters to check on the padawan down the hall.

He had noticed how hard you pushed yourself. You held astounding skill with your saber, rivaling Anakin in many regards. Despite the strength of the force within you, you were never good enough for yourself, critiquing each mistake you make to the point of embarrassment. Obi-wan had noticed this, but never said anything out of fear of overstepping his boundaries as a master.

He opened the door to your quarters softly, trying not to startle you. He called out your name, pulling you out of your daze. "What are you still doing awake, young one?" he spoke.

"Why are you here?" you questioned. "You were working all day. I figured you'd be asleep as soon as you got to your quarters."

Obi-wan chuckled. "I sensed a disturbance in the force. It felt like you," he said, gently. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

You were shocked to say the least. You looked up to Obi-wan more than your own master. He was arguably the most talented of all of the jedi, Yoda be damned. That opinion was independently formed without any outside influence. Outside influence being the massive crush you had on him.

They were enigmatic, your feelings for him. Truly, it was the kind of thing philosophers tried to explain with frilly words and a certain softness, and in a way, they were right. You could never explain it in any way other than stardust glittering in your bones, burning your soul in the most pleasant way possible. You were so modest around him, knowing he was everything you weren't, and it led to the intense self-deprication you engaged in on the regular. You weren't patient or levelheaded. The lack of these qualities led to strong passion, leaving you on edge and in fear of turning to the dark side.

In the time you spent in your own thoughts, Obi-wan had seated himself beside you. "You always push yourself so hard," he started, "but I sensed great doubt in you, padawan." It felt as if he could peer into your soul when he looked you in the eye.

"I'm fine. You have more important things to do than be my therapist." It came out harsher than expected, but the message was all the same. He didn't need to treat you like a child.

"You aren't a bother," he said, moving closer. "I care about you more than you know-"

"I'm not even your padawan, so I don't see why you're so worried."

But the truth was, he thought about you all the time. How you put Anakin in his place in training. How you fight with a saber as if you were born with one in your hand. How you spin in the air when you fight, almost envying whoever the poor soul was that had to oppose you in combat. But over everything else, how you managed to be the most beautiful woman he had seen in his life, even with no makeup, hair pulled back tight, and sweating under the almost obnoxious weight of the jedi robes.

"You're the best of the padawans. You could kick Anakin's ass at any given chance. You give me hope for the next generation of jedi, and manage to smile while doing it all."

He spoke with a honey-like grace. The sweet words stuck to you like you had just dipped your hands in his soul. Obi-wan wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a warm embrace. He smelled like linen and home, wherever that was.

You pulled out of the hug. "That's the problem. Everyone thinks that except me. I still feel like that same scared little kid from Naboo I was way back when whenever I make a mistake. And the trials... Maker, I don't even know what I'll do about those."

"Darling," he started, "all in all, we're our own worst critics." He reached his hand out, "may I?" You nodded and he took your hand. "We look at our lives as if it has to live the greatest story ever told, when really, the only person who thinks that is ourself."

You gripped Obi-wan's hand tighter, tears welling in your eyes. Vulnerability wasn't anything you were used to, especially not in front of the masters. As far as you were concerned, you had to be perfect for them. His voice felt like the auditory equivalent of sunshine, and maybe, for a brief moment, it could balance out your storm.

"If you were supposed to just fight perfectly and follow orders, you might as well be a clone, sweetheart." He chuckled and put his arm around you. "Not to mention, you are much prettier than the clones."

You laughed and shook your head, "I wish you wouldn't lie to me like that, Master Kenobi."

"You are truly astounding, young one. I know you don't think that, and I know it'll be even harder for me to convince you of that, but I promise you are." You pressed yourself against his chest and let yourself cry. There was no reason not to by this point. He wasn't the type to gossip, and you couldn't remember the last time you had cried in front of anyone.

Obi-wan pulled you from his chest and looked you in the eye. You'd swear he was made of love, of starlight. "Don't cry, love," he spoke, gently brushing away the tears from beneath your eyes. Obi-wan kissed your forehead softly, brushing over the spot with his calloused finger tips. "You were made for this."

In a turn of events even you found shocking, you had locked your lips on his, your hands wrapping around his neck. Those calloused hands tangled themselves in your hair as his mouth swiftly took your breath away. You pulled apart, the air between you heavy and comforting. He gave you a giddy smile, stroking your hair while he gazed at you. In that moment, Obi-wan looked at you as if you had hung the moon, and for a brief moment, you yourself felt like you could have. The trials should be afraid of you, not the other way around. "You have no idea how long I have wanted to do that, really," he said.

You smiled and nodded, giving him a quick peck on the lips before leaning against him and falling back on to your bed. Obi-wan got comfortable, and you soon followed suit. It was late, and you were buzzing with happiness.

"I promise you, I meant what I said to you. Each and every word, starlight." His words pulled the biggest smile from your face as you snuggled closer to him, taking in all of Obi-wan Kenobi. His scent, his warmth, and the way his chest buzzed when he called you starlight.

You weren't sure how long it was or how many kisses it was until you had fallen asleep, but it was by far, the best night's sleep you had gotten in ages. The fact that you woke up with Obi-wan still next to you was the brilliant, loving icing on the cake. Technicalities could wait. You were beyond in love, and nothing could take that away from you. Not war, not fear, not the trials. You finally had someone worth holding on to.

So you did, you looked up to his peaceful expression, eyes still closed, and opted to go back to sleep, holding him like you were the only two people alive.

At that moment, you were.