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Diego hid behind the large stack of books he had put on the counter. Jabba was there browsing in the practical psychology section and Diego didn’t want to be caught staring. Jabba came in the store almost every week for many months now and Diego had a tiny bit of an obsession growing with the magnificent Hutt. Every time he laid his eyes on Jabba, he felt like the rest of the world fell away, time became meaningless and he was bewitched.
He ached for a touch, to slide his fingers over the rough terrain of Jabba’s glorious skin, to feel each and every of his wrinkles. But Diego couldn’t for he was Jabba the Hutt and Diego was just Diego, nothing to write home about.
Trying too hard to be unnoticeable he accidentally pushed a book over the counter’s edge and it fell with a loud plunk. Diego was startled as was anyone else, that being Jabba who fixed him with his yellow eyes. Diego, blushing to the roots of his hair, rushed to pick up the book.
But Jabba was faster. Diego was astonished. Jabba casually rolled over the book and towered over Diego whose face was almost touching his large belly. Just a millimeter and Diego would be touching him with his nose. It was tempting thought, oh so damn tempting, but Diego didn’t dare. Not yet.
“You’re always watching me.”
“I-I didn’t mean to be rude.” Diego stammered, blush creeping up his neck from being caught.
“I didn’t ask for an apology. I ask for an explanation.”
“Um, you’re magnificent and I’m just really—that is, I admire you a lot.”
“You do?” was that a hint of surprise in his voice?
“Very much. I just really want to feel the texture of your skin,” Diego blurted out. He wished ground would just swallow him whole right about now.
“You, a mere human, want to touch me?”
When he put it like that— Diego swallowed, “Yes, I do.”
“In that case, touch me.” Those were five words Diego didn’t think he would hear coming from Jabba’s mouth, especially not in that breathy tone. He was mesmerized and a little bit in awe, captured in the hard gaze of those yellow eyes, bulging out from their sockets. Was it going to be impolite if he went straight for the belly? He wondered. Nah. Jabba hadn’t specified and Diego couldn’t think straight. This luscious skin was calling him.
He lifted his arm and went for it like a man dying of thirst and this being his one last chance to quench it. Upon the first touch of Jabba’s skin, warmer than he had imagined but hard and unyielding to the light pressure of his fingers, Diego gasped.
Exquisite, simply heavenly.
Feeling the texture of Jabba’s skin was everything. His finger skimmed over the small wrinkles on his belly to the deeper ridges on his arms until he reached the rolls under his chin. He couldn’t get enough of his texture. He slid both of his hands in his folds, safely encased and warm within the dry skin. If he was a poet, he’d write about the beauty of his wrinkles and the size of his meaty arms. He’d write about the hue of his skin and how it captivated him to the point of no return and how he could not stop touching him— reverently, lightly, savoring each and every inch of his skin.
The Hutt shuddered. Jabba was not unaffected, Diego realized and a thrill ran through him. He hid his smile behind his hair.
He had also been thinking—well, that’s all he been doing lately, thinking about him and Jabba—and he had come to realize he wanted to try that French kissing thing. But as Jabba had commented he was mere human and Jabba’s mouth was the size of a football field and his tongue could swipe his whole face.
Diego imagined them on a moonlit walk along the beach and he looked up in Jabba’s mesmerizing gaze. Jabba’s rough fingers touched his face and Diego leaned into the touch, craving, wishing—
But then Diego woke up in his bed, moonlight streaming through the gaps in his curtains, and realized it had all been a dream.
He had still not touched Jabba. He never will.