LITTLE DEATHS - chapter 1 -

This is what I've been working on lately. It's a darker Kalluzeb story, all from Kallus' POV, with snippets of encounters throughout the war. Basically a 5+1 : 5 times Kallus and Zeb thought they needed each other for their fucked up coping mechanisms… and 1 time they just needed each other.

It's definitely a darker tale than I usually write, and it is def outside my wheelhouse, but I am trying! I wanted to tell the story so here I am! I am an extremely slow writer, and NEVER publish or start to publish on AO3 until the work is fully complete, so this is a special treat just for you guys! Please enjoy. (It is unbeta'd and could use a major edit so please excuse any rambles or errors.) 

TW : some light autoerotic asphyxiation, rough play, masochistic thoughts

Lothal was in celebration.

Alexsandr Kallus was going to be sick.

This was not because of any latent Imperial sympathy, even though the thought of how many lives were lost, enemy or not, when they blew up the dome, was enough to make him squeamish. This was also not because of the multiple rounds of drinks he had shared with his fellow Rebels at the crowded cantina. No, what made proud, righteous, tormented Alexsandr Kallus lose his meal this evening was the toast to the fallen clone, Gregor.

Kallus had been around plenty of people (comrades, enemies, friends even) who had died. He had watched their lives leave their bodies with his own eyes. They always either went loudly with a shout or scream, convulsing or seizing in a shocking twist of agony and anger of why me why now oh god no; or they went quietly. Softly.

Lasan was the only place he had experienced both, and it had always left him with a bitter taste in his mouth and an uneasy twist to his insides. This was something he ignored for a disgusting, self-preserving absolution, but now he lived with it, remembered it freely. And he did so, to honor the dead, to do something, because by all rights he didn’t have the right.

A being will scream as they are vaporized, just up until the burning shockwave hits their lungs, their cells literally ripped apart and shaken until there is nothing left but dust and ash. Kallus will never forget how quiet it is after. Ashes can’t scream, and yet in the silence that is all Kallus could hear. That is all he can hear, still.

Kallus kicked at the rich soil of Lothal to cover the vomit he had just puked up, a mess of cheap alcohol and the ration bar he had eaten before being dragged down to the festivities by none other than the other clones he had fought next to. The same faces, different in their own ways, but the same as Gregor’s nonetheless.

The felled Imperial at the shield platform could have just as easily aimed at him and hit him instead of Gregor. If only he had gone to that panel instead, it would have been ‘to Alexsandr Kallus’ they were toasting to in the cantina.

Would it have been Rex that would’ve held his hand as he went? Would Zeb have made it back up to do those honors?

Would he have gone loudly or quietly?

Kallus was fairly certain it would be loud; indignant and provoked. He had never been a quiet or soft man. It wasn’t in his nature to be.

It could have been him that was shot, blaster right at his heart, shot from behind. But unlike Gregor, he would have gone screaming, he’s sure.

It could have been him.

It should have been him never danced across his conscience, because he was a self-important bastard of a man, and he knew it. He was not a good man, never had been. Even with all the so-called good he did and the work he was doing with the Rebellion, he was not a good man. He was still disgusting. He was still self-preserving and selfish, as he’d always been.

He was desperate for sensation, any sensation, be it the burn of bile down his throat or the cut of durasteel as he punched at the controls to the Ghost’s ramp so he could make his way inside.

What also made him sick was his desperation for this reminder of sensation. Because it could have been him. It was never should have… and that made him hate himself all the more. He was sick. He didn’t wish he had died instead. And that made him wish he felt something other than his own gross survival.

Too late and too ashamed to find a partner, as Kallus usually did when he was faced with mortality, or lack thereof, he resigned himself to get himself off quick and dirty in the cabin he had been (too) graciously offered to share with.

Zeb was definitely still in the midst of celebrating with the rest of the Ghost crew, he had seen him across the cantina, laughing merrily and chugging down a ridiculously large glass of alcohol the size of Kallus’ arm. He would be there for a while, Kallus was certain, and that would afford him the scant amount of privacy he needed to shake the loud and rancid screams in his mind, festering like something real and tangible through his body.

Release and the agony to reach that release was something that worked to clear his body and mind, something Kallus had learned long ago when he discovered sex and the art of sex back in his academy days. And this need had only grown more understood, polished, and refined since his academy days; after Onderon. It was after that mission that Kallus had learned that the agony to reach release was the affirming and grounding thing he needed the most after his experiences.

Kallus bit his lip as he paced the small space, the warm light of the bunks giving the room a pleasant, melancholic glow; because this was not only Zeb’s room, but also Bridger’s. Ezra. Gone now. Dead or alive, who knew? All those people on the Chimaera, the entire 7th fleet, were gone too. If he had never defected, it could have been him…

“Fuck!” Kallus growled and realized his fists were clenched so tightly that the leather of his gloves creaked.

He tore them both from his hands and tossed them on the bottom bunk; Zeb’s bunk. He knew this because it smelled of him; the rich, sharp scent of moistened earth, musky and foreign to a man who grew up on Coruscant, but not entirely unpleasant.

He got a stronger whiff when he sat down on the edge of the bed and hastily unbuckled his belt and set that aside with a deliberate and lingering motion. Next he pulled the ochre shirt off his back and crumpled that into a ball to toss aside. He didn’t bother taking off his boots as he pulled down his pants and underwear to just past his knees.

If he didn’t want to chafe, he could look for lube or lotion. In a male teenager’s room, let alone also a lasat in his prime, he was bound to find something to ease the movement and perversion he planned to inflict on himself chasing release. But oh, did Alexsandr Kallus want…

He huffed impatiently and at least afforded himself a spattering of spit to his palm as he gripped his flaccid dick to give himself a few long, squeezing tugs. His hand stuttered over the warm length of flesh and he curled his fingers inward to gently scrape his nails along the underside. A fleeting thought, one probably only brought on because of where he was, he thought of what teeth or fangs would feel like running along the same path.

His cock twitched and began to get hard.

He moaned as loud as he dared, because he didn’t know who else had already retreated back into the familiar embrace of the Ghost for the night.

Kallus looked down and watched his hand as it pumped up and down over himself. He gripped the base and slapped it roughly against his other hand’s palm a few times, biting his lip when that felt intense and acute enough to bring him to full hardness.

After a few minutes of alternating between slaps to his palm and dryly fisting himself, Kallus became frustrated. It wasn’t enough. He looked down at his belt that lay on the bunk’s surface, tempting him with it’s strong, durable leather and hard, metal buckles.

Not yet, he told himself.

He stopped his vigorous treatment of his cock long enough to put back on his fingerless gloves. He resumed with another groan as the textures of his gloves ran over him, the friction indelicate but welcomed all the same.

He closed his eyes and imagined being held down, bent over, and used from behind, a cock or toy shoved far up his ass. It didn't take long in the academy to discover he preferred to fuck men, but it did take until after Onderon that he preferred to be fucked by those men. Whenever he tried to rationalize his wants, which was never a long affair, he simply wanted things to linger, to remind him of better pains, ones that brought delicious orgasm. They distracted his mind and body from other more shameful aches that reminded him he was still alive. And the silent screams.

If they were to stay a while on Lothal, Kallus would need to be sure this would linger.

He grabbed the belt next to him, and grunted in satisfaction when he slung it around his neck and tightened the loop until the metal buckle thudded against his collarbone and the leather dug into his throat.

When he leveraged the strap taut through a rung on the ladder and pulled he gasped and allowed himself a smile as his eyes fluttered shut again.

He tugged the belt and relished in the feel of it confining and restricting his air flow as he scratched the nails of his free hand down his chest, sure to leave red marks in their wake. He pinched and bruised at his nipples, pulling on them as much as he could bear. Only when his entire chest tingled and the rub at his throat burned did he take himself in hand again. His cock was so hard and dripping precum now, getting his fingers wet and messy.

Kallus nearly shouted aloud when he started back, fisting himself so brutally his entire body was shaking with the effort. He bit his lip from crying out too loudly, seething in a strained breath through his teeth, his lungs begging for a full gulp of air.

He pulled tighter at the belt strap and his vision blurred a warm trickle of tears wet his lashes and cheeks. He whined a groan, the sound choking and stuttering through his throat, bubbling out on another gasp. Oh fuck, he'd have marks on his neck, ones he'd feel for days…

He was so fucking close.

"K-Karabast!" A familiar voice exclaimed or whispered, Kallus wasn't sure the accuracy of the volume since there was a rush of blood pounding in his ears.

Kallus blinked the tears away, unable and unwilling to stop himself from continuing towards orgasm. Even though the mortification of being caught in the act and seen by none other than Garazeb Orrelios made him falter for half a second, he still jerked himself faster.

Their eyes locked for a brief moment and Kallus felt something inside him bloom and then he burst.

He broke his knuckle-white hold on the belt to fumble shakily and cup his hand over the head of his cock as he came violently, shaking and wordlessly moaning around gasps for air. He curled in on himself, as much as one could in such an exposed and compromising position. There was no doubt what he was doing to himself, but the brief animal instinct to hide was warring with his euphoric waves of satisfaction.

An indeterminate amount of time ticked by as he tried to catch his breath and milked at his dick, squeezing the fluid into a mess on his palm. Somewhere he had broken his gaze and was looking down, the dark and looming shadow of Zeb in his peripheral vision outlined and haloed like a real spectre, standing still and unmoving in the eerie glow of the hallway's light.

The door closed, affording Kallus slightly more privacy in the dark room if not for the presence of the lasat still standing in front of him and occupying the room too.

"M'sorry, Kal," Zeb said, his tone genuine and awkward, "I didn't realize you were, uh… karabast, Kal, are you alright there?"

There was a gesture in his direction and Kallus touched the loop of leather around his neck and with a slow tug, loosened it further and then dragged it off, letting it clunk to the floor unceremoniously. He gingerly prodded his fingers around his neck, wincing in pleasure at the sting.

"I'm fine," Kallus said, his voice gravelly and pinched, hoarse in the quiet of the room. He grabbed his shirt and wiped the ejaculate from his hand and folded it into an unassuming ball again to be tossed down next to his belt. He roughly tucked his genitals back into his underwear and pants and refastened them.

His arms trembled from exertion, and a fair share of adrenalin, as he gripped the bunk on either side of his hips and finally dared to look back up into Zeb's eyes.

Perhaps Kallus had expected a look of disgust or even just a grimace, but what he saw was a level glare of concern and another emotion he couldn't read. Not pity. Kallus couldn't bear to see pity aimed at him, especially from Garazeb Orrelios. No, how Zeb looked at him now was more reminiscent of calculating, loud and insistent thoughts on his mind, perhaps.

“You’ll have marks,” Zeb pointed out and Kallus barely contained an eyeroll.

“It’s fine,” Kallus said. I like that it will, he thought. At his second flippant remark, Zeb tilted his head, his ears flicking backwards. Annoyed.

“Lotta people can really hurt themselves, doin’ it that way, is all,” Zeb rumbled, taking a step forward, and Kallus couldn’t help but tense his shoulders, but he didn’t dare look away. He was a proud, arrogant man, even after being caught masturbating while choking himself with his own belt by someone he respected. Someone he-

“I didn’t have an alternative,” Kallus bit out. It wasn’t as if he could have found a partner willing to give him what he needed and quickly enough, as frantic and sick as he was leaving the cantina after Gregor’s toast.

“Hmm,” Zeb grunted simply, but thankfully didn’t press that further. “Need some bacta for it, or… anywhere else?”

Kallus looked down at the red streaks his nails had left across his chest, not deep enough to bleed, but raised and angry looking all the same. He shook his head and ran his still-shaking hand through his hair, the sweat slicking the strands back against his scalp. He blinked and glared up at Zeb through his dewy lashes. “I am quite fine, Zeb. Trust me.”

"Alright." Zeb shrugged, and then stepped closer still, until Kallus was sure he meant to step between his legs. At the last moment he bypassed the ladder and hopped up into the top bunk and settled in with a low sigh.

Kallus almost insisted Zeb take the lower bunk, since it had been his, but stopped himself. Maybe Zeb was letting him stay in his soiled area of depravity, disgusted with the way Kallus had treated his space, where he slept. Maybe he wasn’t bothered in the least and couldn’t give a karking gundark where he slept and since Kallus had already claimed a spot in the bunk, he took the next available one.

Finally shucking his boots, Kallus rolled into the bunk and folded his arms across his bare chest and feigned sleep. Such an intense orgasm usually left him sleepy and satisfied, if only for a short respite of time. Sometimes that’s all he needed.

Tonight, perhaps not so much.

“Y’know, you could come t’me, if you ever needed -that,” came Zeb’s voice from above in the dark quiet of the room. He said it quickly, maybe embarrassed, maybe emboldened, probably both.

Kallus’ eyes flew open and he stared up at the bottom of the bunk, as if he could see through the durasteel and padding. Had Zeb really just…?

“I beg your pardon?”

There was a shifting of the bunk’s sectioned padding above. “Sometimes your body just needs reminding, ‘specially after losing people. I get it. Sometimes you just gotta kriff, sometimes you just gotta be kriffed. T’feel something, anything.”

Kallus stayed silent, a hand idly running along his neck.

“After Kanan died, I couldn’t find anyone either. Karabast, I tried with my hand; closed my eyes and imagined that I was shoving my cock down a dirty Imp’s throat, that I was kriffing them so hard they bruised and felt it deep inside, to the heart of them. I wanted to feel, I wanted them to pay. My hand got me there, eventually, but it wasn’t a pleasant thing. It’s much better with someone else, someone real. I think we both know that, don’t we?”

Kallus swallowed and tried to breathe evenly. His heart was beginning to thud hard in his chest again, arousal unbidden licking at the shallow, self-inflicted wounds all across his body (and deeper ones, ones beneath the surface of his facade of being 'fine').

This was the worst sort of temptation, one so freely offered and one he so suddenly desired; perhaps had always desired -since Bahryn at least.

“I’m just saying I get it,” Zeb growled, in a sort of finality. Not a moment after he said that, there was the sound of a clasp coming undone and a zipper being pulled down. “If you wanna leave for a sec, I’ve gotta take care of myself now too. Couldn't find an alternative either."

There was a groan from above, a rattling purr of a noise that made the hairs on the back of Kallus’ neck stand on end and that insistent tickle of arousal tap at his insides. Zeb obviously couldn’t wait for an answer to begin his strokes, the wet sounds as he took himself in hand and pumped clear enough to his ears that he could practically picture his speed and length.

“You’re fine,” Kallus said, barely managing his words.

“G-good, Kal, that’s… good,” Zeb breathed, as if Kallus were up there with him. He sounded just as desperate and anguished as Kallus had been minutes before when he was chasing his own end. “Come to me next time, please.”

Kallus couldn’t affirm or deny what Zeb asked of him. How could he? How could either of them promise such a thing when neither of them knew where their chaotic circumstances would lead them? Especially during a war.

Despite all that, Kallus thumbed the marks on his neck and answered with a quiet:

“Yes.”