He doesn’t have long, just a couple minutes in the ‘fresher between shifts, but he’s been hard as beskar for what feels like an eon and his codpiece is starting to hurt. He’s not even sure why. Behind his eyes is a collage of the women at 79s and the things Inch had streamed on the holonet and that one time with a civvie in the back alley and—
He engages the door’s lock with one hand and brings the other to his mouth, ripping his glove off and sending his gauntlet clattering to the floor. Of all the days to have to wear full kit… He unclips his codpiece and opens his bodysuit fly, too impatient to bother with the rest of his gear. He gets a hand on himself and nearly collapses, bracing himself on the wall. Fuck, but it’s been too long since he had time to himself. He loves his brothers, would die without them, but sometimes a vod just needs to be alone.
He palms himself, biting his lip to cut off a moan. The pull’s dry and just this side of painful, but then a memory hits him
Dreaming, he has to be dreaming, but she’s grinding down on him harder and faster and he can’t bring himself to care, he can’t see her face and then she’s the Nautolan from the Temple, the one with the ass and he’s fucking him and oh, fuck, he wakes up grinding into the heel of his hand and coming in his pants like a godsdamned cadet. It’s all he can do to clap a hand over his mouth and muffle the whine.
and it doesn’t matter anymore how dry it is, how much it pulls, because he’s twitching in his hand and when he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, precome pulses out and slicks the way.
“Fuck,” he hisses, squeezing himself and stroking faster. “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fucking nghh—”
He presses his thumb under the head and sparks fly behind his eyes as he grits his teeth and tries not to shoot, come on, Hemlock, you can hold on just a bit longer. Maybe it’s stupid but he only gets to do this once in a while and he wants it to be good.
His legs shake and his time is quickly running out, but he conjures up the image of that Jedi over him, of the noises he might make while he fucks Hemlock into the mattress and moans too loud to hide on the next downstroke.
“Oh, gods,” he pants, slapping his still-gloved left hand over his mouth. “Oh gods, h-hah, shit.” His glove is rough against his lips and on a whim, he slips two fingers into his mouth, hooking them over his bottom teeth and imagining someone grabbing his jaw and “Oh, shit, ohfuckingstars hhah fuck nngonna come—” comes over his hand, hard enough to streak up his belly plates and splatter on the tile.
He gasps for air, head spinning. “Shit.”
Well, you learn something new every day.