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Title: Aria
Author: Elle
Rating: NC-17
Category: challenge/PWP
Characters: Vader/original female

Summary: A potential concubine and Vader...

Disclaimer: I own nothing here. I'm not making money.

“I know the difference between a good man and a bad one, but I haven't decided which I like better.”- Mae West

Part I.

"Tell me why I should keep you," he commands.

*Because I have nowhere else to go.* The words stick in my throat. I know that when I open my mouth something banal will come out.

Luck saves me and I don't need to answer because one of Vader's underlings hurries into the room. I can sense that Vader wants to kill him for the interruption (a serious breach of etiquette no doubt), but when he hears the words the officer whispers to him he straightens.

"Something has come up that requires my attention," Vader says. "Perhaps it would be best if you met the other members of my harem while I attend to business."

I mutely nod in agreement.

In a swish of black he is gone and I am left with the nervous officer. His face is mottled with anxious red splotches. For some reason his awkwardness makes me uncomfortable and angry.

"So, show me the other whores," I say coldly. "I may as well know what damage I'll be expected to sustain."

He nearly turns purple but quietly leads me out of the sitting room and down a labyrinth of corridors. I chose my words angrily but carefully. Now that I have seen who I am to be companion to, I suspect I know why I was chosen. The long black hair, the white skin, the dark eyes...and most importantly the Trevaili reputation for being able to endure pain. It's a reputation not fairly gained. Trevaili women don't enjoy pain any more than anyone else, but centuries of civil war on our homeland has made it our legacy. We are stoic if nothing else. The galactic misconception is that we are somehow proud of our birthright.

I nearly trip over the officer, he stops so suddenly. We appear to be standing in front of an empty wall. I raise an eyebrow at him cattily. He coughs and then presses on the wall. To my surprise a door hisses open and he steps aside.

I look at him expectantly.

"I can't follow you," he explains.

I nod and enter the room. It is a brightly lit antechamber. An older matronly woman is seated on a couch in front of me stitching an intricate design on a piece of fabric.

She smirks at me. "An applicant?"

"Yes," I say coolly.

She touches a panel behind her and a second door slides open.

"Go in," she says.

This room looks more like I would expect a harem to. A woman's place (or at least a man's conception of what it should be). There are divans and beds scattered across the room, brimming with lush pillows. Semi-transparent drapes separate the room into smaller chambers, each currently occupied by a different female. Music plays softly from somewhere--a hideous piece designed to be sensual but failing miserably.

I look at the closest woman, a Twi'lek reclining on a sofa, and I gasp. Physically she is in fine condition, her teal skin nearly glows with health, but in her eyes I see ruin. Has he done this or is just the affects of being *kept*? I wonder. Sentient beings fade in captivity, don't they? It's not just pain that clouds her gaze, but the utter devastation of realizing you've lost everything, that your life has become worthless. It's a look I've seen in widows of war, in women who have seen their offspring slaughtered, daughters raped.

"He won't hurt you," someone says behind me. I turn to see a human woman, maybe twenty. She sounds older than she is. "Not much anyway," she continues.

"I...I haven't been accepted yet," I stammer stupidly.

She looks me up and down. "Oh, you will."

I swallow. "What does he want exactly?"

She snorts and flops down on an overstuffed pillow. "What do all men want?" She makes a crude, but universal, gesture with her fingers.

"So he is a man then," I say. I wasn't sure up to this point. And I don't do inter-species sex.

"Human, you mean? Yes." She eyes me curiously. "Mostly. His limbs are artificial. And he can't breathe without that mask on."

"Then how does he...?"

"In a hyperbaric chamber. He can take off most of the uniform then," she explains.

The words feel thick in my throat when I ask, "What does he look like?"

The other concubine sneers and gestures to the Twi'lek. "Why do you think she's like that? He's a monster, physically. I don't think he feels anything...emotionally I mean."

A sociopath? I wonder.

She shrugs. "You'll get used to it. The hyperbaric chamber will make you faint anyway. But if you pass out when he's on top of you try and fake that it's him making you do it. Flatter him if you can."

Somehow I don't buy that he'd believe me if I did.

"What does he like?" I ask frantically. "What does he not like? I only have a day to convince him--"

She interrupts me. "You really want to be here, don't you?"

"I'm Trevaili," I answer curtly.

She understands then. Anything is better than where I come from. At twenty-five and pretty it's a wonder I haven't been raped yet. Back home that was a tactic of war, and an ugly one. My family is gone. I have nothing but the hope of being a whore. A sad little life indeed.

"Nothing pleases him much," she confesses. "He likes the same thing all men do, but he'll always be dominant. Be submissive. Fear him. I think he enjoys it."

As if I'll have to fake it.

"But don't scream," she warns.

I don't have time to ask what she means because the door slides open and the matron gestures for me.

"He's waiting in his private room," she says with a sneer and then slaps my butt hard enough to make it sting. "You have fun now, girl."

Part II.

I follow his broad, black shoulders down another series of corridors, these considerably less occupied. The hallways are silent as we near his private space. I suspect no one is allowed here except for Vader and his companions.

I am afraid and relieved. It will be over soon. Not knowing--that's the worst part. Most anything else I can endure.

A door slides open quietly and I follow him into an antechamber, then a second room--his chambers. The air here is very different. This is the hyperbaric chamber, I realize. I am surprised. It looks like any high-ranking officer's quarters, although it is rather spartan. He seems to favor black, low light and no decoration.

The room feels cold. I cross my arms over my chest nervously. The bed in the corner seems to loom over both of us. If he is just any other man then I can please him--but I suspect he is not.

"Are you prepared for this?" he asks. His voice is almost, *almost* kind. He touches his mask.

Then I realize the tone is his voice is self-pity, loathing. It has nothing to do with me.

"Yes," I whisper.

"You may feel faint," he says matter-of-factly.

"I know. The air pressure--"

"From my face," he interrupts coldly.

With no warning other than a soft hiss, he pulls the helmet from his head and then peels off the mask. My mouth feels dry.

When he turns to me, I am surprised.

That's all? I want to ask. He is not monstrous at all. He is pale and bald but still young and clearly once very handsome. I guess his age to be somewhere near thirty. His head is scarred badly, but not so much that it disrupts his face.

Then he turns his eyes to me and I understand. They are dark and filled with so much venom that it makes me gasp. He doesn't hate me. He hates himself. It's almost worse to see.

"Why don't you sit down on the bed?" he suggests, his voice more human now. He seems to sense that I'm feeling woozy from his gaze. It's probably not the first time.

Self-consciously I sit, and then begin to unclasp my gown. It's held by a simple clip behind the neck that keeps the shimmering fabric tenuously in place.

"You don't have to--" he begins, but by then the dress is down in a sable puddle at my feet.

He sees my scars too then. His eyes trace the three lines that mark my hips.

"Were you--"

"No," I say quickly. "No, no. Boys from another village, with a knife. Before they could, my older brother saved me. He killed them. Years later their fathers killed him. Things like that happen where I come from."

"So I've heard," he says. "Soon we will extend the Empire there and our influence will--"

"Do nothing," I finish. "It's the Trevaili way to inherit hatred. That's why our war is never-ending. No one even knows how it began."

My hands fall nervously into my lap, brushing my thighs. His gaze follows them enviously. I look up to meet his eyes and I know my own are liquid dark. "Please just…" I don't know what to say. Take me? Rather clichéd.

He takes pity on me. He walks over to me and bends as if to kiss my mouth. His lips are a whisper from mine. My heart hammers in my throat. For a moment he pauses, then straightens. He seems to think better of it and leaves the room for a moment.

When he is gone I blow out a trembling breath. I had thought this would be less awkward, that he would be more forward. When he comes back out he is dressed more normally, shirt and slacks (both black), although his gloves and boots are still on. He follows my gaze and flexes the black leather fingers. "You don't want me to take them off," he says.

I nod, remembering the other concubine's words.

When I catch his eyes, I can still see the hatred simmering behind them, but it is more subdued now. Without knowing why I spread my legs and press my hands on my knees. He glances to the pink of my sex, exposed now. This is me, I want to say. This is what I'm trading for your protection. It seems paltry in comparison to what I will receive-safety is greatest luxury of all.

He moves to the bed and stands in front of me. He touches my chin gently. "Are you a virgin?" he asks. "I don't want that."

I shake my head. "It was how I paid for my transport off Trevail."

Then he bends down and kisses me and it hits me, clarion-clear. I can't help it, no matter what the other concubine said, I scream.

Part III

I can taste it on his tongue, desire, need, anger, and most of all, tragedy. It's a strange thing to feel from a lover, utter and total devastation.

He pulls away at my scream, which I realize sounds more like the perfect high note a diva makes at the end of an aria.

An aria. Suddenly I know where I have felt this before, all the operas my grandfather took me to. It's that sort of tragedy that comes off his body in waves. It's beautiful in its sadness.

I sink to the floor on my knees and look up at him. My eyes are wet with tears.

The whole story passes through my mind in bits and pieces. He shows it to me. It has the makings of a perfect opera. The forbidden love. The mother avenged. The betrayal by a mentor. And most of all the fall from grace and honor, the ultimate tragedy. The hero brought low--so low even a dignified death is denied.

I have heard these songs sung before, with such passion and woe that they could bring even the coldest of hearts to tears. I never experienced it *physically* from another person.

"We have the best operas on Trevail," I say lamely, deliriously.

He is beautiful then, like the dark, sharp edge of a dagger. Beautiful and fine and it makes you bleed when you touch it.

It takes me a moment to realize that he is staring at me in shock.

"It's true what they say about Trevali women," he mutters.

"I don't like pain," I whisper. "I can just appreciate it. Sometimes that sting in my chest is the only thing that reminds me to breathe."

His hand slides through my hair and suddenly I know what he likes. I know how to make him want me. The others have tried to make it better, to soothe the wound. All that self hatred bound up in him--he wants me to prod it.

There are ways to make love so that it balances a fine edge between ecstasy and utter despair. The sobs of lovers on my homeland can be heard the night before battles, before husbands and partners will be lost. It's the sound of physical joy and emotional agony.

I touch him through his slacks and he shudders. Almost instantly he is hard. I part the fabric and take him into my mouth. His hands fist in my hair as I pull and tease his most sensitive skin. With my eyes closed I only see colors--blood red and soft ebony. They are his colors. The sounds coming from his throat are raw and nearly pained. Exactly what he wants. I am so gentle it is cruel.

Then I taste him, salty and hot. He pulls me to my feet before I can open my eyes. His mouth is on mine again, tongue in me, so that he must taste himself. Black fingertips open me, expose me, prod and probe there. It's exquisite. I run my fingers over the scars on his head, shivering, nipples hard. He takes one into his mouth roughly, purpling the already dark aureole.

His voice is ragged when he says, "Lie down on the bed."

I fall backwards when he lets go. My hands brush the mattress and lower myself onto my back. He spreads my legs and hooks them over his shoulders. This I didn't expect. It's too...giving.

There isn't any foreplay where he's concerned. His lips find my clit unerringly and suck hard. The scream comes from me again, straight from my chest it seems, and it's that perfect high note again. The orgasm tearing through my body is nearly painful.

He is still mostly clothed when he enters me. It's been a long time and I ache when he pushes all the way into me, but it's a pleasant ache. I feel desperate, as if we'll never be together again. Lovers in war.

He shifts so that I am now on top. I like this better. I ride him slowly, squeezing with each movement. I draw the pain from him like blood from a gash, absorbing it, relishing in it. A story like his, pain like his, is so wide and epic that it makes the everyday tragedies of living--disease, divorce, death--seem insipid.

I hear the last chord of the aria when he comes inside of me. Now he screams, brutally, and I pass out.

When I come to he is stroking my hair. "I will keep you," he says to me. I smile because he means it both ways.

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