Master Apprentice
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He wraps his hand around his shaft. Slick with oil, it slides through the tunnel of his curled palm, solid, hot, liquid silk. He loves the feel of it, the way the steel is covered in softness, the way it's hotter than the skin of his hand.
His eyes are closed, making it easier to fantasize, easier to imagine it isn't his hand that holds the heavy erection.
The hand in his fantasy is always the same. Long fingers atop a large palm, hands that have soothed him and held him, scolded him and defended him. Hands so like his own, but for size. Calluses in the same places, used to the same tasks.
The hands aren't the only thing that are similar and it makes him wonder sometimes. His fantasies always revolve around the same man. Qui-Gon Jinn.
It isn't that Qui-Gon is his master, but it is that Qui-Gon is a Jedi. They are the same, same job, same gender, same race, same species.
And so he wonders. Does he have a problem? Is this a failing? Is he a xenophobe?
He doesn't hate anyone because they are a certain species, not even the Hutt. But he loves... he loves this older version of himself, this one who is the same and he doesn't know if it's a problem or not.
His hand moves faster over his flesh and the worry slips from his mind as his climax nears.
His thumb slides across the tip of his cock, collecting the drops that are starting to leak, spreading them. The smell of the oil, slightly spicy, is coloured now by the scent of his pre-cum, familiar and bitter. It means he's coming.
He can feel it in the base of his spine, in the round of his balls, and he cries out as it shoots from him, spills over his hand, over the hand that is so like the one of his fantasy.
End.