Title: Subtle Temptress
Authors: Red (dzohhar@yahoo.com) and Dark Lady
(darklady@ukgateway.net)
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns him. Dammit. No profit made.
(Waves a hand surreptitiously) Don't sue.
Rating: R (yell if that should be NC-17)
Category: ABH, PWP, romance (romance? Really?), some angst too.
Pairing: Vader/you
Summary: What?
Warning: this PWP is rated only R; if you want more graphic,
don't look.
* * *
Subtle Temptress
Hmm. Let me see. Where should it start?
Ha! The ever-present billowing cape, of course. One of his
trademarks. It is of a heavy, soft, warm, luxurious material,
and the way it moves, fans out, swooshes past you when he
strides down the aisle, past all those diplomats, envoys,
bootlickers and swarms of Ladies of the Court...
Which takes your thoughts to his Stride. Determined. Powerful.
And, of course, exposing his boots to the best advantage. Heavy,
balanced, precise stride. How would you feel following him?
Walking before him? Walking *with* him? ("Walk with me." -- Your
heart flutters.)
He stops, stands very straight, heel beside heel, towering over
the rest of us, hooks his thumbs to his belt. You suddenly
realize that you have bent your thumb, as if hooking yours
together with his; what would it feel? ("...so close to you...")
Could it feel muscles beneath his armour, rippling, moving with
every breath? Could it feel warmth, or does the armour keep his
humanity completely confined?
Everybody bows when he passes, then rises again; there is murmur
of whispered conversation, gossip, soft ladylike laughter, sly
smiles. He stands amidst it, completely motionless, a sphere of
emptiness and quiet surrounding him. He is feared. ("...Dark
Lord. There are rumours from the Navarin system. His fleet was
there...")
His shoulders. So broad and powerful. His arms. Incredibly
strong. His silhouette – as much as you see it from between
moving bodies, colourful silks, shimmering velvet, heavy brocade
– black, precise, elegant. Elegant to the ridiculous silvery
nose of his mask. Do you sometimes fancy how he would look like
without his cape on, the broad muscled shoulders tapering into
waist where his tunic is held in place by the leather belt?
You almost don't realize when your focus shifts to your mind
vision, and you start dreaming of him, how you would see him,
touch him, explore his mysteries.
He is no longer among the guests; but a young aide approaches
you and asks you to follow him. You pass through hallways to the
private areas; finally you stop behind huge doors, and already
you know who is behind them. The doors open, the officer
announces you, turns on his heel and leaves promptly.
"Enter," says the rich baritone voice. (Oh, you *know* that
voice!)
* * *
I felt it, of course, when she watched me. I always feel things
pertaining to myself. Survival. But I have to admit, I was
surprised. Where is she from, not to know me for what I am?
Because, if she knew, she would not feel that way. She would be
afraid. Disgusted. Appalled, perhaps, if she has a humanist
trait in her -- ironically, some still do in that court (not for
long, though). Maybe she would feel pity.
Pity. That is disgusting, that is humiliating. The mere thought
that someone pities me makes me want to show them that I am not
to be pitied. I. Am. Not. To be. Pitied.
But not she. She-- *desires* me. She thinks I'm worth looking
at.
I've avoided thinking of myself that way, ever since there was
one disappointment, one disillusionment too many... and now,
let's face the truth, I am afraid. All that terror and fear I
inspire -- and mind you, I know I do that, for I do that on
purpose -- is to mask my own insecurity. I am not sure what to
do.
I feel her approaching. "Enter," I say, and there she stands. I
look at her for long moments, far past the Lieutenant's hasty
retreat. Temptress.
* * *
Enter.
Enter.
En-ter.
He has a beautiful cultured accent, precise, commanding and
elegant as the whole of his being.
"Lord Vader," you say, proud that your voice does not quaver. He
nods in acknowledgement and gestures you to step closer.
You look around in the room and... gulp. The most prominent
feature is a HUGE bed to your left. A few comfortable armchairs,
a table and comm unit, soft carpets, warm velvety tones, lights
only half up, creating an atmosphere that is undeniably
intimate. You shiver.
"You're surprised?" he asks. His tone is cold as usual, you are
not sure if he is mocking you. "But surely you must have
expected that."
Ah, he reads thoughts. Good. At least now you know.
You look unflinchingly into his dark mask. "I did not intend
to... distract you."
"But distract me you did." He rises to his full awesome height
and paces before you, hands clasped behind his back. For the
first time you have all the time and more to admire him so
closely, yet for the first time you realize that he might
consider it... improper.
"Tell me--" he hisses, "what do you hope to gain."
You swallow. "Nothing," is the only answer you have, yet it
sounds too much like a child trying to cover up some sort of
mischief.
"As you are surely aware -- and I do not doubt you've made some
extensive character studies -- I'm easier to approach with
directness and honesty. So why don't you take advantage of it
now?"
Oh that cold, cold, mocking tone now. "I am sorry," you day,
blushing, looking down. Defiance rears its ugly head. "I said I
didn't mean any harm. It's not my fault you're so..."
"So what?"
A breath of a pause. "Shamelessly attractive," you finish, not
entirely sure whether it came out audibly or not.
He is silent for a long moment.
"Oh." he says finally. And then he is silent again, pacing
before you. Then he sits down -- and once again the billowing
robes fold so gracefully around him. he stretches out his long
legs comfortably, and you cannot take your eyes off... his
boots, of course. A gloved hand gestures you to step closer. You
obey.
* * *
The silence grows uncomfortable.
"Are you aware that I might just take advantage of you like
that," he says after another pause.
Oh yes! That's what you've been dreaming, secretly...
You look him straight into the eye. Honesty? Well, you are
prepared to be bluntly honest, if need be.
"With due respect, I don't think you can," you state boldly.
"How so?" He sounds mildly intrigued. Maybe he is in a playful
mood tonight.
"Whatever you would do, the advantage would still be mine." He
knows all about your dreams anyway. So if he wants to play
"honesty", you are willing to play with him.
"You know nothing about me."
"I am willing to take the risk, Lord Vader."
You have the distinct impression that a corner of his mouth,
lined by hardships, worries and disillusionment, quirks upward.
For you, he is alive behind his mask, even where everybody else
would only see a motionless stare. Yet you *know* when he
smiles, and this seems like the most precious gift.
Another lengthy silence sets in, and you wonder if your business
here is finished. The least you want now is to outstay your
welcome. You try hard to think of any polite way to take your
leave. You move to the viewport, staring at the planet looming
large before you. You hear a rustle of robes -- and he stands
behind you. *Close* behind you.
"Stay with me," he says, more like a command; then corrects
himself: "for a little while?"
Your knees go weak. You wonder if he is aware, how erotic this
is – the man you've always fancied, the embodiment of power,
strength, virility, the object of your dreams, begging you to
stay. You feel... powerful? No. Inexplicably sad. You want to
take his head in your arms, press it against your chest and
caress it, murmuring soothingly "I will, love, I will."
You do not answer.
"I... will not do anything you don't want to," he offers. Your
hands start shaking when you realize he must be flirting. Of
course, he is aware of your reaction to his words.
"That... is a relief." Your voice is husky, with a touch of
playful irony.
You do not see his hand moving up, as if to come to rest on your
waist -- then hesitating, and pulling back. But you cannot
ignore the fact that he stands *close* to you -- and the huge
bed looms somewhere behind you. Full of meanings. Your mouth is
dry and your head is full of possibilities.
* * *
//I feel her approaching. "Enter," I say, and there she stands.
I look at her for long moments, far past the Lieutenant's hasty
retreat. Temptress!//
Perhaps a hasty judgement of her. Being woman she is not
guileless, neither is she an experienced hussy. Almost
innocent. Almost.
She wants me? She radiates her desire and distracts me, I
inspire no terror in her, nor pity either. 'Awe', yes, and a
certain wariness, but not terror. She is strong, proud, I like
that.
But will she want me when she sees my burned and tortured body -
what is left of it! Will she want to stroke her pretty hand
over my scars? Oh it is so long since I felt a touch, of
someone's skin against my own.
She says my name, and her voice is firm in the saying of it. No
hesitation, this makes me curious, I beckon her closer and she
comes, gladly. Now she sees my quarters and is surprised at the
luxury I enjoy. Why? Surely it is my due as my Master's Aide,
what else should she expect? Or is she surprised that my bed,
such a vast and comfortable bed, is empty, that only I will
occupy it?
Dare I read her thoughts? Dare I know what is in her mind?
Dare I hope? What now, what do I say to her? How do I beguile
her, how would she look in there, amid cool crisp white sheets,
how would she feel under my hands, under my body?
She will be warm, inviting. Oh gods, it is so long...
I ask why she is surprised, my voice is cold as I try to hide
this increasing interest in her. It makes her shiver, just a
little, but she is unflinching. She has distracted me, and she
knows it. Like a woman she enjoys this moment of power that she
has over a man - even a man such as I, a Sith Lord. But she
does not flaunt it.
"Tell me, what do you hope to gain?". I ask her this harshly as
I pace before her, unsure again, looking for lies, looking for
some selfish purpose. As I do this it occurs to me that she is
slightly built, but not scrawny. Her breast would fit well into
my cupped hand.
My glove suddenly constricts me, the glove which but minutes ago
was armour and protection is now constraint and tedious
barrier. I flex my fingers, starting to imagine the warm
softness of her in my hand, under my lips...
'Nothing' she says.
Nothing?
I remind her that it is easier if I am approached with
directness and honesty, and she is defiant, manages to remind me
that I am 'shamelessly attractive'. Yes, those are her words,
barely audible, but 'shamelessly attractive'. What is there to
say to this? I do not know the words to respond to her, I have
forgotten the how of it, I have forgotten the ritual of
courtship and flirtation.
Silence is my only rejoinder, then 'Oh.' to fill the gap in my
thoughts, to buy time to think. My agitation must show so I
hide it, I pace before her. I relax into a chair, and as I do so
the woman's eyes follow me, speculating.
This woman is speculating about my body! Her eyes travel from
my boots, to my thighs, and she looks... This amuses me but my
body responds to her bold interest. I beckon her closer. I ask
if she is aware that I might take advantage of her. Now she is
very bold and does not believe that I can, reminds me that she
has the advantage.
And she knows of the amusement, senses the smile at the corner
of my mouth, this empathy she has - it is a rare and precious
gift. I want her to stay, how to ask? Now she moves towards
the viewport and and stares unseeing at the planet while she
considers how she might leave. This woman has a gracious heart,
and I want her to stay. I want her.
So I move behind her and my cloak rustles, she hears it, tenses,
waits.
"Stay with me!" It is too commanding, yet I must not appear
weak in her eyes, or indeed in my own. I soften my voice a
little, "for a little while?" I ask.
The power of woman, the power of a woman who has set her heart
and desire upon a mere man, is immense, cannot be deterred. She
feels it, enjoys it for a little while, celebrates victory.
Does not answer yet wants to touch and caress me. Love me even.
She knows nothing about me, nothing about my needs, desires,
taste in these things, yet she is offering everything. Her mind
wonders, will the first time be the last time? Will I be a
rapacious monster, taking her life as I take her? How shall I
reassure her?
I try to reassure her, tell her that I will not do anything she
does not want, tell her that the second most powerful man in the
Galaxy will not force her....
She is so close, standing in front of me, at the viewport. She
stands straight, tall, her hands are shaking. Suddenly she is
very aware, of me, of the luxury, of my spacious and comfortable
bed, and we stand on the brink. I stand on the edge. Of what?
Do I remember?
I want to touch her. Where do I start? The shape of her waist
as it curves to her womanly hips is suddenly irresistible, and I
raise my hand to touch and stroke, feel her warmth and curves,
pull her to me. But my hand falls back, I am unsure. What do I
do then?
* * *
//"I... will not do anything you don't want to," he offers. Your
hands start shaking when you realize he must be flirting. Of
course, he is aware of your reaction to his words.
"That... is a relief." Your voice is husky, with a touch of
playful irony.//
Deliberately you leave some ambiguity in your voice – relief
that he will not force you, or relief that finally – *finally!*
– he has asked you? Your mouth is dry and you seek anchor to
your wildly whirling emotions, watching stubbornly the scenery
before you.
//"I will not do anything you don't want to."// Such sweet
promise in those words. Surely he must know what you want.
You've dreamed of so much. *Nothing I don't want to*... that
leaves just about... *everything*. Because that is what your
advantage is: whatever he chooses to give you, is a gift,
because you've craved it.
It is awkward. You would expect him to make a move -- yet he
stands there, behind you, above you. His respirator wheezes
constantly, yet you do not feel his breath at the back of your
neck. He waits still, gives you space to make your own decision.
You don't want that! You want to turn and throw your arms around
him. Measure him with your hands. The breadth of his shoulders
above you. The length of his sides. Your mouth -- on his thigh.
Feeling the hard muscle beneath, the slight sheen of sweat from
lovemaking. //Does// he sweat at all? You want to feel his
weight upon you, pressing into you, making every breath a
struggle. Most of all, you want him lose control, go over the
edge. You want to see naked passion--
The rhythm of his constant breathing breaks in a gasp. You half
turn to him, almost losing your balance. A hand catches you,
circles your shoulders and grips your arm. And does not release
you even when you've found your feet again.
That is too much. You don't think you can resist any longer. You
are on the brink of throwing all caution in the wind, flinging
yourself into an affair that can be no more than one night – and
a lifetime of pain and regret afterwards. You are beyond caring.
You turn and hide your face on his shoulder, your hands
travelling the path along his belt. The warm soft blackness of
his cape now all but engulfs you, and two thick powerful arms
press your body to him.
"No sense delaying the inevitable," he says in a matter-of-fact
tone tingled with warm humour. The hair on your neck rises at
his voice. "I want you," he says softer.
* * *
He pushes you slightly away, looking at you. His mask is as
inscrutable as always, but the way his fingers are hooked into
your forearm, the way his helmet is tilted slightly, you can see
the man beneath the mask. The man who has been lonely and is
asking for company, a warm heart, perhaps love.
He flicks his hand toward a control panel, and you hear the hiss
of pressurised air. Gloved fingers ghost over your cheek and
along your jawline, and you try to catch them with your lips, to
brush a kiss over them. You can almost see a look of puzzlement
flicker across his face, a little disbelieving laugh at your
reaction. But he stays.
He calls the lights down, and now the only lights in the room
are those on his breastplate. With a slow but curious hand you
trace the contours of the plate; but he grabs your wrist and
pulls your hand away. He turns you back to the window and pushes
you there, keeps you there with his knee between yours as he
quickly undoes the respirator and throws it onto the bed. Then
he waits, as do you.
You still can't decide if it's real or a dream. Shuttles fly
past the viewport, their lights reflecting on the
transparisteel, and your face and hands. Hundreds of thousands
of stars of the Galactic core shine about you more brightly than
a full moon, and the planet below is dotted with tiny, barely
visible city lights.
You hear the unassisted breathing, soft and faint, then it
deepens as he finally allows himself to become aroused. Then two
hands come to rest on your hips, and a -- mouth? -- presses a
kiss on your head. A hand grabs yours and pulls you toward the
bed.
Your eyes adjust gradually to the darkness, and you lift your
eyes to see, for the first time in your life, the real face of
Darth Vader. It makes you almost giddy.
Shyly you raise a hand to trace his features, the proud,
slightly curved nose with wings that show his passionate nature,
the strong eyebrows, the worried lines on his high, intelligent
forehead... then over his eyes -- you can't see what colour they
are, but they seem deep-set and tired and even in darkness you
can see the dark circles around them in the pale moon of his
face. They are bitter, arrogant, but they soften a little as
they study you. His jaw is strong and brave -- he is a man who
is not afraid to reach out for what he wants. He wears something
around his neck -- you are not sure what it is, but it looks
like some sort of support or protection. His lips are pressed
together, pale and dry but still revealing some of the
sensuality of youth; years of pain and disappointment have
drooped the corners of his mouth downwards. An angry scar mars
his left cheek. Is that what makes him so unsure of himself?
You think he is handsome. Not beautiful, but... just right. The
way he must be. The beauty and tenderness of youth are gone,
perhaps, but there is strength, maturity, determination,
willpower, and passion held in check by years of training and
discipline.
You love his face.
He makes no move to kiss you, he just looks at you. Lets you see
every feature of him, as much as you can see in this darkness.
Maybe sees if there's any tiniest revulsion at his appearance. I
love you, silly, you think to him -- and the right corner of his
mouth quirks upwards for a moment -- just the way you had
thought it would.
You want to return the gesture, let him see you the way he has
shown himself to you. You raise your hands and begin to undo the
buttons, one by one. He watches, intently -- marveling? When you
are done, you take his hands and place them on your chest, then
guide them to push down your dress over your shoulders. You step
out of it and let his hands and his gaze study your body, as
patiently and silently as he let you study his face.
* * *
The second most powerful man in the galaxy slowly removes one
glove as he stares intently at your breast, uncaringly discards
the glove, and raises the hand to touch, gently. With just
three fingers he strokes, feels the soft skin, and with his
middle finger, touches the nipple.
He has forgotten the pleasure in this, the touch of another skin
against his own, seeing another being become aroused at the
touch of his fingers, wanting him. He stoops to kiss, and pulls
off the other glove - there must be no barriers between you
now. You close your eyes, feel him pull your body even closer
as he cups you in his hand and holds you, then his hands roam
over your body indiscriminately, exploring the contours and
shape of you.
'Is this what you want?' he wonders. 'Can there be more?' he
wonders.
'Oh yes.' Your thoughts broadcast to him as your fingers find
the remaining fastenings to his clothes, untie, undo, remove his
garments, ease them from him until he stands before you. Such a
magnificent warrior is your Vader, tall, lean, lithe and fit. A
body to die for, you think unthinkingly as you kiss and pull him
gently towards the bed.
He is eager now, and wants you. The kisses are more passionate,
he covers your shoulders, throat, and face with hot touches
while his hands explore you more. Until he picks you up and
buries his head in the curve of your shoulder and neck, kissing
and biting a little as he does so.
This warrior holds you like a fragile treasure, you feel safe in
these arms, protected, there is nothing else in this universe
except you, and Vader, and skin against skin. And he lays you
on the bed, gently, and lays him down beside you, pulls you to
him as you shiver with delight and anticipation.
You draw your hand down his chest and stomach, hesitate a
little, soothe round his hips, his thighs, teasing and
caressing. Is he breathing? Or is he waiting? With fingers
light like feathers you touch, draw them along...
* * *
She shivers. Of all the riches that are laid out before me, for
me to touch, taste, enjoy, the fact that she is shivering
catches my breath. How her hands tremble as they move along my
body, fumble with the unfamiliar fastenings, flutter under my
throat like... Like tiny birds.
The tenderness of it almost breaks my heart. I close my eyes and
let my hands, my mouth, my bare skin remember, and the sweet
torture of it makes my stomach constrict. I am eager to try
more.
I lay her out like an offering on the altar, for me to taste and
worship. She is so soft and pliant under my hands -- when did I
last feel soft? -- and fresh and fragrant under my mouth.
I am hungry, impatient, I cannot get enough of her! Alas, I have
but one mouth and two hands, and that is way too little for me
tonight! Yet I can't get enough, I can't get enough, because I
want more. I feel her, touch her, and she is beautiful under my
hands. I dress her body in kisses, and wonder why I can't see
any flames, for surely my mouth feels so hot? And her hands on
me, her hands -- how can they feel on me the way they do? Can it
be that I'm so alive, or is it a sorcery of a woman's devising,
a magic she invokes for me?
I close my eyes, pressing her against me. I need. A moment...
She catches me, teetering on the edge. Two hands snake around
me, pulling me closer, her legs shift, her knees part. And then
she is open before me, all so trusting, willing, inviting, and
nothing lies between me and my goal, and then I am there, and oh
the sweet Force and a thousand tiny angels running all over me
in nailed shoes...
* * *
Slowly the world returns to normal. You look around you, dazed,
remembering where you are. He lies beside you, spent, satisfied.
Your arm is numb, caught somewhere between you -- there is
always one arm too much. You hear -- no, you feel with your
entire body, the double beat of his heart echoing in his chest.
You shift, so that you can see his face. This is a moment of
sadness. You love the moment. He tilts his head towards you and
smiles very slightly. He can understand that -- he knows these
moments too. His fingers ghost over your cheek, and he pokes
your forehead with his nose -- not a thank-you-and-goodbye kiss,
but something lighter, more playful, and perhaps more--
promising? He smiles, the first full smile you see on his face.
"Sleep," he says, and suddenly you cannot keep your eyes open.
When you wake up in the morning cycle, you are alone on the huge
bed. He has returned to his duties on the bridge, wearing the
inscrutable mask. Will he look different today, under that mask?
Will he feel different?
And you -- will the memory of this night mean something for you
after a year, after ten years?
END