Beloved Sandworm Of The Desert

This is very unbecoming.

A stupid thought, but the only one Armitage has as his breath floods from his lungs in hot, damp gasps—his fist buried in against his pillow on one side, and on the other, the heavy drag of his aching cock.

He doesn't remember how he got here: only that he was tired, raw as the insides of his cheeks from his constant self-flagellation, and that, more than anything, he was . . . lonely.

An unfortunate set of circumstances—an emotion he rarely lets himself feel, paired with a distant, dizzying dream.

You. Here. In his bed. That dark, human smell of sex and the brush of shaking hands against his body.

Awake, he can imagine it more fully. His skin slicked with sweat, as it is now, chest heaving, the raw friction of your hips, more solid than his pillow. Your wet, desperate moans that Hux would swallow with every kiss as he takes and takes and takes.

Armitage wonders vaguely what you might think of him if you saw him like this, but the spike of shame does nothing to quell the insistent need for release. He could not stop, even if he wanted to, grunting into his sheets with every sharp thrust.

The sound he makes is louder than he would normally allow himself when he finds his release, cum pooling at the head of his cock and seeping into the thin fabric of his pajamas.

Fuck.

After a few deep breaths, Hux recenters. His body is stiff, unused to this kind of movement, but he manages to roll onto his back, tossing the pillow to the side with a harsh scowl.

It's a deeply uncomfortable position for Armitage, made worse by the way his spend begins to cool and the soaked fabric clings to his hips and thighs. And yet he makes no move to clean himself up, or even find a change of clothes.

The discomfort is what he deserves, certainly, after behaving in such a manner. His cheeks flood red, chest growing splotchy.

How will he ever manage to look you in the eyes the next time you meet? His own stupidity astounds him; his weakness disgusts.