number1_himbo | [kallus]

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kallus

[kallus]

For someone who'd been assigned a career since-- maybe not birth, but definitely since being sold to an alien shortly after birth-- Luther finds himself enjoying his small smattering of odd jobs. The apple orchard, some time at his favorite barbeque pit, and ever since February, some light stripping.

Admittedly, at first it had been about chasing something from a life he hadn't really lived. Now? He likes it as much as that other Luther had, and the money is good.

The management seems to like him too, if getting custom-made outfit is any indicator. He leaves the astronaut behind, but sexy construction worker and Officer Hardnipples do numbers.

The newest costume comes in about a week after some pop diva releases a song about whips and chains and getting tied up. He could, of course, try it on at work, get someone else to do the harness, but he has a much, much better idea.

"Hey, I'm here," he calls out as he lets himself into Kallus's apartment, box of leather under one arm.

Yeah, he has a way better idea.

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Kallus is, admittedly, still often thinking about Cassian Andor and Jyn Erso. He had never expected to meet another Fulcrum agent, another person who, like him, had fought against the Empire.

Ahsoka Tano had given him her codename and he had considered that a great honour. He'd never quite realized how deep it all went.

"Hello," he says, a little distracted, though he pulls his attention from his own inner thoughts and looks toward Luther, where he manages a smile. This man is certainly enough to pull him away from thoughts of the Empire.

"Hey," Luther says again, smiling that privately delighted smile he knows he gets whenever he's around Kal. "You busy? I kind of need your help with something. At least, I thought I'd rather have your help the first time instead of one of the guys or girls backstage."

He sets the box down, coming over to Kallus, where he leans in to kiss him, stupidly happy just to be here.

Maybe not stupidly, even if he feels stupid in love plenty of the time. It's definitely smart to be happy to see Kallus.

"Not at all," Kallus answers, lifting his hand to Luther's arm and pressing into the kiss. Even after all these months, it's a delight that Luther is half a foot taller than he is, that he has to rise up onto his toes to meet his mouth.

"Not at all busy, that is," he adds. "What is it you need help with?"

Luther has mentioned the club, the dancing, so he imagines it must have something to do with all that.

For a moment, Luther considers tossing the box aside and pressing Kallus back against the nearest flat surface. The only thing preventing it happens to be the contents of the box and his hopeful guess that they'll lead to something even better.

"Good," he says, that hope glinting mischievously in his eyes as he pulls away just long to retrieve the box. "It's a new costume. Parts of it probably require another person's help." That, and he likes Kallus to be the first to see whatever indecency he's going to gyrating around in.

Luther opens the box, revealing a lot of leather and vinyl. "I'm gonna go put on the pants," he says, "it's the harness I need help with." Stealing another kiss, he grabs part of the box's contents and hurries toward the bedroom.

"Stars," Kallus says, staring into the box even after Luther has taken part of the box's contents and disappeared into his bedroom. He doesn't even consider if it might be a mess -- it isn't -- and if he ought to be embarrassed, because he's too busy digging into the box and lifting the... harness, had Luther called it?

There are a lot of straps and buckles and Kallus turns it one way, then the other, trying to make sense of it.

By the time Luther returns, he thinks he may have it, but then he drops it and it clatters to the floor.

The pants are tight for pants that are meant to rip away into a g-string.

He almost doesn't think they'll come off, but he's less interested in testing this than getting back out to Kallus-- especially because from what he can see in the mirror, they look painted on. Luther's deeply pleased by the image he presents, something that's taken a long time for him to feel, even in Darrow.

"Hey," he says, maybe just a bit shy. "So, the pants fit good. Feel ready to put the rest on me?"

"I..."

He's a high ranking of the Imperial Security Bureau, but stars' sake. Or he was. A high ranking rebellion spy. A man of means, of true Coruscanti descent, with prestige and money and pedigree.

He's picked up the leather and vinyl, and dropped it again.

"Yes?" It's not a question, but he's actually not sure if he can do what Luther is asking.

Huh, Luther thinks, maybe they used the really slippery vinyl.

And then, because he's actually learned a thing or two, he gets it. A fine rosy pink colors his cheeks, and he keeps walking, crossing the room back to Kallus, unable to help his delighted grin.

"Here," he says, taking the harness long enough to slip one arm in, "I mostly need help buckling it." Which... okay, he might or he might not. This is just way more fun. "Make sure it's nice and tight," he adds.

For most of his life, until Zeb, really, sexual attraction has always been purely physical. Transactional. Kallus has never been in one place long enough to develop a real relationship and a consistent level of attraction and desire. There are some he's had a physical relationship with repeatedly, though even those weren't regular, simply because he was too busy, too distracted, too buried in his work.

Darrow has given him this and he, a kriffing spy of the rebellion, finds his hands are trembling just slightly as he helps Luther buckle the harness.

He isn't afraid or nervous. He's just so bloody aroused.

It blows Luther's mind all over again, that not only does Kal, admittedly one suave motherfucker when he wants to be, want him back, but he wants him this much, enough that Luther can feel the tremor in his fingers.

He makes himself take a step back, because he wants Kallus to get the full effect, and because he's had an idea that will only work if they don't immediately tear everything back off and go into the bedroom. That's-- that's still the plan, down the road, but right now--

"You should pull out a chair and sit down," he says, his own voice rumbling and wrecked. "I've watched enough lap dances at the club that I want to try it." He could say something about wanting to test the give of the costume, but he thinks they're well past that.

It ought not to be nerve wracking, he thinks, all he's doing is pulling out a chair and sitting down in it. Luther is the one who is doing, who is putting himself in a slightly more vulnerable position, and while he does this for work and is paid for it -- paid well, Kallus hopes -- this is a different scenario. They're more to each other than just dancer and customer, after all.

Still, the slight tremble in his hands remains as he takes a chair and sets it in front of Luther, then sits. His back is straight, hands folded on his knees, as he's been led to believe one isn't meant to touch those who are dancing. Which will be an exercise in self control, something Kallus would generally pride himself on.

"I'd be happy for you to test something out on me," he says, a smile curving his lips briefly.

"Yeah?" Luther murmurs, breathier than he means it to be. He reaches for his phone, thumbs through for a song, something from a playlist he's carefully curated to be heavy on the beat and light on vocals. It blares through the speakers, not the bass thumping through the floorboards of the club, but still good.

He can keep the rhythm.

And he does, swinging one leg over Kal's lap to straddle him, fingers grazing his throat as he places his hands on the back of the chair. It's a good beat, and he rolls his hips lazily even if his heart's pounding-- not touching Kallus, but almost close enough to count. Grinning, he leans in, breath hot against the shell of Kallus's ear, and murmurs, "You come here a lot, baby?"

Truly, Kallus doesn't mind what Luther does for work. He seems happy about it and while he does wonder a little at the men and women who are so desperate for attention that they feel the need to pay for it, he might understand it a bit more after tonight.

There is, after all, something very arousing about Luther being this close, dressed in such an outfit, and not quite touching him.

The comment draws an unexpected laugh out of him and he curls his fingers over the edges of the chair. "No, actually," he says. "My boyfriend works here, though, and I don't know if he'd be that happy to find you this close to me."

Luther can't help it, the way his breath hitches at the word boyfriend. He almost loses the thread and topples them both over so he can bite and lick at Kallus's mouth.

Where the self-control comes from, he doesn't know.

"Don't worry," Luther murmurs, lips brushing Kal's ear, "I have it on good authority he's fine with this." And he breaks the rules, a little bit, pressing a fond, tiny kiss to the shell of his ear, before swinging one leg down and turning in Kallus's lap. Reaching down, he takes Kallus by the wrist, placing one hand and then the other on the harness.

"Hold tight," he says, dipping into another dirty grind that just barely doesn't make contact, the muscles of his back flexing as he rolls his hips.

Before Darrow, he hadn't bothered with establishments like the one Luther dances in. No time, no real interest, focused instead on doing what he was told, serving the Empire, trying to catch the damned rebels he had chased for so long before he turned around and joined them.

Now he's glad of it. Somehow, having never been in this situation before makes this all that much better.

"Does he?" he asks, smiling just a little, fingers hooked in the harness and holding tight as Luther instructed. He watches, appreciating the movement, the muscles beneath Luther's skin, and he wants to touch him so badly.

"Yeah," Luther breathes out, leaning forward just enough that Kallus will have to pull back, sliding his hands down his stomach and hooking his thumbs into the tight leather pants. He eases them down a little, until it's clear he hasn't put on all items in the costume; the shiny-slick g-string has been helpfully abandoned somewhere along the way.

He's so fucking turned on he can barely think straight, as evidenced by the way each roll of his body has started to make contact with Kallus's thighs.

"Fuck, baby," he murmurs, dropping some of the pretense, leaning back again so he can seat himself in Kal's lap and grind, "I need you to touch me."

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[kallus]

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