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Title: Fury
Author: Elle
Rating: NC-17
Category: PWP, angst, some light BDSM themes

Disclaimer: I own nothing people. I live a metaphorical fanfic box under a bridge with the other hobos. I'm just borrowing it.

Summary: A female officer aboard Vader's ship gets more than she bargained for.

Furies (Erinyes): Female spirits from the underworld who tormented evil-doers, particularly those who had committed some crime against a family member.

Isael sat flushed and throbbing from the excitement of the kill. She could practically taste hot blood in her mouth. Her prey had died silently, out in the cold of space and far from her grasp, but she could feel the thrill of their death none the less. Dissidents and traitors, they deserved worse than to be blasted to pieces.

As Isael piloted her TIE Interceptor back into one of the hangars of the Raptor, she felt her blood cool slightly. She rarely flew these days and almost never engaged in combat directly. Every now and then she needed the release though, no matter how unorthodox.

She landed and then climbed from her ship, two technicians moving in to clean the craft up even though she had taken no fire. She pulled off her helmet and shook out her red hair just as a junior officer scampered up.

He handed her a holopad and cleared his throat. "For you Captain."

Her crew had never quite resolved the sir or ma'am issue. As one of the few senior female officers, Isael had worked hard to be viewed as an authority figure, not a woman. As a result she was often addressed as "sir" by nervous officers, who were then afraid they had insulted her. Now they just resorted to her rank.

"Thank you," she said evenly, taking the pad in her gloved hand.

The officer made a half bow and then scampered away. It took time to get her crew used to the idea of following her orders. It took persistence and a dash of cruelty. Now she was certain about the respect they had for her. Every man aboard her ship looked at her with a mix of fear and respect.

She unsuited and then glanced at the datapad on her way to the bridge. Scanning her orders quickly she felt her stomach drop. She was being transferred to someone else's ship. She was being demoted.

* * *

Isael's gently clasped hands shook a little, belying her rage. As she faced the washed out blue image of Tarkin, she had to fight to keep her voice cool.

"You'll understand that I was surprised to read your orders, sir," she said as evenly as possible. "The Raptor and I have the best track record for intercepting rebel spies out of the entire Imperial fleet."

Tarkin didn't even blink. "The Emperor himself has requested you join the crew of the Executioner temporarily. You'll be restored to your ship eventually, Captain."

Isael smiled from between clenched teeth. "And is there some special service I'm supposed to perform about the flagship, sir?" she asked. "Otherwise I don't understand how transferring me could possibly be efficient--"

Tarkin cleared his throat. "You've become reckless lately, Captain Rucka. There's been some concern for your leadership ability."

"If this is about me leading the attack squadron--"

"And Lord Vader personally requested your presence," Tarkin interrupted coolly.

Isael had no response for this. She was dumbfounded as to why the Sith Lord would want her aboard his personal flagship and a combination of fear and pride roiled low in her belly.

Tarkin continued, ignoring her now. "The transfer will be made immediately." His image winked out of existence.

Isael drew in a shaky breath. She had worked twice as hard as any male officer to get command of her own ship, and she kept that command with unprecedented success. Her crew was among the best-trained in the fleet. Now she was being relegated to Lord Vader's personal lackey. The thought of following the big black bastard around like all his other trembling devotees made her want to vomit.

She bit the inside of her mouth hard enough to draw blood. She didn't care if the Prince of Darkness requested her personally; she would be back aboard the Raptor in a month, even if she had to kill someone to get there.

* * *

Tarkin stared at Vader, his pallid face revealing little. He seemed to have only two expressions, annoyed and sardonic.

"She wasn't happy," he said flatly.

"I didn't expect her to be," Vader replied. His baritone voice filled the room, rich and dark.

Tarkin leaned back in his chair. "Dare I ask what it is you want with her?"

For a moment there was no sound other than Vader's breathing. He folded his hands in front of him. "She has talents I'd like to see for myself. She may be better suited to something other than commanding her vessel."

Tarkin snorted. "She won't want to hear that."

Vader never bothered to answer. It didn't take a fool to know that he didn't care.

* * *

Two weeks aboard the Executioner had lead Isael to suspect two things. First, she was not going to get off the ship without Lord Vader's explicit consent. Second, the aforementioned Sith Lord's codpiece was clearly either chafing or too tight--no one was that unhappy all of the time.

Standing on the Executioner's bridge, looking at the starry void of space, Isael mused that she was probably the only one on the ship considering Vader's codpiece. Two weeks and she hadn't seen a single female officer, medic, technician...not even a member of the janitorial staff. There was a distinct lack of estrogen aboard Vader's ship.

If she had been any other woman this might have been cause for concern. These men hadn't been planetside in the better part of a year, and the average crew bunker afforded no privacy. It was an immense ship too; all the whores of Courscant wouldn't be enough when she came to port.

Any other woman might have worried, but not Isael. It only took hours for her authority to be established. She knew for a fact that the crew regarded her as more a curiosity than a woman; most feared her to no small degree. She had once overheard a junior officer commenting to another that when angry, her tone of voice could make men sterile. It didn't help that she had been irritated ever since she boarded the Star Destroyer. Her presence here was insulting, and Lord Vader had only bothered to speak to her twice since her arrival. His request to see her personally was either an exaggeration or an attempt to trivialize her in the eyes of the rest of the army. She had fought hard for her reputation and didn't take lightly to it being toyed with, not even by the Dark Lord himself.

The longer she waited to find out why she was here, the angrier she became. Lately her smile looked like she had to work to pull her lips around fangs--and she rarely smiled in the first place. The rest of the time she stalked around under a menacing cloud of barely contained violence.

Isael was so lost in her own quiet fury that the officer standing next to her nearly had to poke her to gain her attention.

"Yes?" she barked, without meaning to.

The younger man started, then regained composure. "L-lord Vader asked me to find you, Captain. There's a matter he'd like you to oversee."

Finally! She thought with relief. "Yes?" Her voice remained level.

The officer coughed nervously. It was clear he didn't want to be near her. "There's a problem with the climate control on deck C, and Lord Vader asked that you personally oversee the repairs..." His voice trailed off weakly.

Isael felt her face grow flush. There were rebels to be sniffed out of the dark corners of the galaxy and destroyed, and Vader wanted her to oversee the climate control repairs? It would have been quicker to tear the flashing off her breast and stamp on it.

"Deck C is where Lord Vader's meditation chamber is..." the officer muttered, trying to mitigate the situation.

Isael shoved past him and headed for the lift.

* * *

Deck C was obscenely hot. Some of the techs had stripped down to their shirtsleeves as they tore apart wall panels, but Isael had no such luxury. Sweat collect under her uniform, puddling between her breasts. Her hair, pulled back in a club at the nape of her neck, was damp around her face.

"What's wrong?" she demanded of the nearest technician.

"We don't know, ma'am," he stumbled over the formality, "but we figure--"

Isael leaned down so her mouth was inches from his. She growled. "Fix. It."

He swallowed. It was apparent she was out for someone's blood. "Yes, m-ma'am. Sir. Ma'am."

Isael rolled her eyes and turned to move to a cooler deck when she came face to chest with Vader himself.

"I take it the repairs are going well?" he rumbled, noting the tech's pallid face.

"They'll be completed within the hour," Isael informed him, conscious of a general groan from behind her.

"Good." Vader regarded her for a moment. "I despise the heat."

The heat and frustration had built to a boiling point within her. The words escaped Isael's mouth before she could stop them. "Your comfort is my highest priority, my Lord."

Immediately she felt sick. Her sarcasm was apparent, and she had seen too many promotions based on Vader's short temper--and the fatalities it caused.

Vader was silent. Isael took slight comfort in the fact that if she was going to die, she had done it to herself.

"I'll keep that in mind, Captain," he said. There was a slight drawl to her title, almost sexual. "And inform you of any other amenities I might require."

Isael closed her eyes briefly and bit down on her tongue. "It would be my pleasure." She to force the words out, hating herself the whole time. She despised Vader's terrified lackeys, and despised herself for playing the role so well.

Vader stared at her for a moment, she almost thought he might be grinning, then marched away.

Isael ran a hand across the back of her sweaty neck and then slinked off to her cabin.

Her quarters were on Deck C as well and the heat in her rooms was boiling. She didn't care. She peeled off her uniform as soon as the door hissed shut and took a deep, cooling breath. Had Vader been flirting with her? No, flirting wasn't the word...maybe a challenge?

She shook her head. She didn't think it was possible, was it? Fear and something more sinister curled low in her body. She poured herself a glass of the coldest water possible and sucked it down greedily. It didn't work. She poured a second glass and then went to the fresher and sat down on the commode. Spreading her legs she poured the ice water down her sex and gasped. Her heels scudded against the floor as the cold water hit her hot skin. She felt better.

Isael groaned and banged her head against the wall.

* * *

Another week passed with no contact from the Prince of Darkness.

Isael understood why there were no women aboard Vader's flagship. Two minutes face-to-face with the Dark Lord, and Isael had to resort to solo gratification to sleep. A lesser woman might have followed Vader around, begging him to take her.

Apparently Vader had no use for stupid females humping his leg, hence no women at all. The thought that anyone could be that provocative made Isael a little nauseous.

She granted herself some slack; after all it had been years since she had sex with anyone other than herself. Even then, she was an extremely busy woman and her job was filled with stress. She rarely touched herself over the years. Now she was in bed, panting over the image of a half-man, just because he might have flirted with her. It was shameful.

Or it would have been. Had it been any other man. Vader seemed to be exception to the rule. A woman didn't need to worry about pride with him. He was every female's darkest fantasy-shadowy, materializing out of thin with nothing more than a whisper of black and deep, rumbling voice. He demanded obedience and received it with ease. He was cruel, but never without purpose. He was the sort of man who could own you.

And the suit only caused more erotic images to flicker in the dark corners of her mind. Was he truly a man? Did the suit hinder him sexually-or enable him to do what no normal man could? He was somehow above normal.

Sweaty and slack, still throbbing from a self-induced orgasm, Isael let her mind and her hands wander.

* * *

The comm in her room crackled to life, startling her out of a light sleep.

"Captain, please report to the bridge. Lord Vader requests your presence." She didn't recognize the voice, but the ship was large and she hadn't met most of the crew yet.

Isael didn't bother to shower, but instead she threw on a clean uniform and pulled her hair back tightly. She did not wear makeup. It wouldn't be proper for a woman in the Imperial navy.

As she reached the bridge, she wondered if she still smelled of sex. No one would be able to tell, unless their sense of smell was superb. She eyed Vader's broad shoulders uneasily.

He was facing the expanse of starry sky, his gaze fixed on a distant pinpoint of red light.

Isael stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back. "What is it, sir?"

"Either a spice smuggler or a rebel spy ship disguised as one. The Interceptors have been sent out to bring it back to the Executioner," he replied.

For a moment Isael felt strictly non-sexual excitement. "I'll report to the hangar and-"

"You will stay here, Captain," he replied.

Isael looked at him in confusion. The ship was far away and fast, and she was one of the best pilots the fleet had to offer. "But why did you call me then, sir?"

"You will stay here." His voice was like a tight cord wrapped around her, restraining her. She could not disobey. That terrified her.

When he turned to look at her, she felt her blood chill, like ice at the base of her spine. "I have other uses for you, Captain," he said.

Her hands clasped the guardrail in front of her. Her knuckles were white and she felt like a dog straining against its lead. Her throat burned with the struggle.

She watched the TIEs leave the ship in a silvery ribbon. Moments later they were tiny specks in the distance.

They wouldn't get there in time. The rebels would escape.

 Vader said nothing. The sound of his echoing respiration matched her own hard breathing. Moments later he said, "They have intercepted the ship."

She felt something snap inside her.

He turned, his cloak brushing her ankles as he left. "Meet me in the interrogation room, Captain."

* * *

There was something supernaturally chilling about the Interrogation Unit. The air seemed thicker there, as if the memories of death and pain had permeated the atmosphere. The interrogation room was filled with the ghosts of misery, and Isael felt their spectral fingers on her spine.

When Vader entered the room from behind her, she felt his presence too. The chill and darkness of his breath was enough to make her suppress and shiver. She turned to face him slowly.

"The smugglers have been brought aboard," he said matter-of-factly, "and you will interrogate them."

Isael cleared her throat. "Of course, Lord Vader. I'll have the droid sent in."

"No," he replied. "You will do it without with the aid of a droids or drugs."

Isael could not hide her confused expression. The drugs supplied to prisoners made them hallucinate. All the interrogator had to due was suggest some form of pain and they experienced it acutely. Mention fire and the prisoner felt the flame. It had been standard practice since the beginning of the Empire. No skill, only minimal creativity, was necessary.

A stormtrooper pushed a metal tray into the room. Isael studied the archaic instruments on it with sinister curiosity. There were sharp implements, torches, instruments for crudely removing teeth or nails, and a thick leather whip. She traced the braiding with her fingertips. The leather smelled like Vader.

She looked up, blue eyes wide and luminous. "Why, my lord?"

Vader said nothing. Then, "Because I command it of you."

The prisoner was dragged in, spitting and fighting. He was a young man, perhaps thirty, with the air of liar and whoremonger about him. He was not particularly attractive and smelled rank, like old sweat and stale booze.

The stormtroopers attached him to a thick frame in the shape of an X. They bound his hands and feet tightly, leaving him otherwise exposed.

Vader left the room, but Isael knew he would be watching. She picked a scalpel-like device up off the tray and silently cut the prisoner's shirt off of him.

* * *

Isael appreciated order like some people appreciated air. She had no psychology to suggest why this was, no traumatic and chaotic childhood. She liked things regimented and neat. The Empire's precision and security appealed to her. That was why she detested the Rebellion on a personal level; they sought to break apart that fragile, yet sound, balance that the Empire had set up. Under its authority there were military and civilians, loyalists and traitors, citizens and criminals. People could be easily categorized. Punishments doled out and everyone kept in their place. Murderers and rapists were executed. Good Samaritans were rewarded. It was a perfect system with no shades of gray. The Rebellion wanted that system to crumble.

This infuriated Isael more than she knew. For as long as she had been an adult, she had been the Empire in one fashion or another, both as a believer in its ideologies and as a solider in its army. To ruin the Empire was to ruin her. It was no less an insult to her person as the rape of her sister might be.

She found the torture of the prisoner surprisingly pleasurable. He was more stoic than she would have expected, enduring most of the cruelties she inflicted on him with gritted teeth and silent tears. Naturally the pain became too much and he confessed to everything. He was not of the Rebellion but a worthless smuggler, scum on the sole of the Empire's boot.

Isael found that causing him pain was not enough to make up for her anger. She needed to humiliate him too. The whip was perfect for that symbolically. Each lash subjugated him, brought him a step lower beneath her.

He was bloody and tattered when she had wrist poised for another blow. She was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, trembling slightly and hyper-aware.

Nonetheless she was surprised when a leather-gloved hand closed around her wrist. "Enough," said the deep voice. She obeyed, coming back to herself slowly.

For a moment Isael froze, realizing both what she had done and how she had enjoyed it. Her muscles ached in a pleasant way and her body was sung with adrenaline. Dark control ebbed out of her system and as she became more aware of Vader, tall and warm, behind her, she became more ashamed of herself.

She dropped the whip. It hit the metal floor with a bloody slap. Vader slowly let her go.

The stormtroopers removed the prisoner, now limp. He would be killed painlessly, his corpse incinerated.

They were alone in the room.

"He was not a rebel," she said in a hoarse voice, trying to regain her composure. "He was just a smuggler and-"

"I watched the interrogation," he said, studying her from behind black lenses.

She swallowed. "Of course." She wanted to say something, to apologize. She wanted to say, "I don't know why I'm like this," but the words never formed.

"I suspected that you would be proficient in this area," he said after a pause. "I want you transferred to an Imperial Intelligence unit."

There was a hint of pride in his voice and she didn't know whether to accept it with a glow or to feel sick from it.

Suddenly, faster than she could have expected, he reached out and touched her face. His hand grasped her cheek roughly and he ran his fingers across her lips. It was more intimate than a kiss. She gasped. When she opened her mouth she sensed that he wanted to pull her against him.

"You do your Emperor and great service with your…enthusiasm," he said. His hand trailed down to her neck, squeezing lightly.

Deep inside her body, she throbbed.

He backed her up, against one of the floor-length windows. Outside there was nothing but a great black void, but Isael still felt exposed. He pulled at her uniform, the top popping open. Roughly he palmed one breast, then the other. He pulled her shirt down so that it trapped her arms behind her and then swiftly removed her pants. He pressed her, bare-assed, against the window, and then with a pop of leather, pushed inside of her.

She had been ready, but it still had been years since the last man. She revelled in the moment of pain. The sting and the burn of it. Then it faded to something even more needle-sharp and intense. He fucked her against the glass. She realized, distantly and foggily, that any ship outside the window might find her naked back, sweaty and slick, pressed against the glass. They might see the spill of red hair and the Dark Lord in front of her. Inside her.

She didn't care.

It was over too fast for both of them. Her own orgasm eclipsed his so that she never really felt or noticed his release.

He pulled out of her with a disgraceful wet sound and concealed himself before she had time to collect her thoughts. She slid to the ground and he placed and hand on her head.

"You please me greatly, Captain," he said, then turned on a heel and left.

When the door hissed closed she put her head in her hands and cried.

* * *

Exactly twenty-four hours after Vader had taken her in the interrogation room, Isael found herself bound and bent over his bed. The hours in between their trysts seemed foggy and filled mindless activity. She had wiped her eyes of tears and went about her duties quietly, secretly throbbing and needing him again.

Vader had ruined her, she realized. One meaningless fuck and she had become an addict; every movement was secretly intended to bring her closer to him. She had practically begged for it the second time.

Their quarters were on the same deck, but that still afforded them no privacy. She could hardly approach his meditation chamber without drawing attention from the crew. She had resorted to wandering the ship like a cat in heat, searching for where he might have reason to be.

He saved her the trouble. She had finally given up and gone to her rooms, only to have her comlink buzz, calling her to his chambers. If this request raised any questions among the crew, they kept silent and stony faced.

Within moments he had her naked, her wrists cuffed to the headboard of his bed. Now she was on her stomach, ass in the air, unable to turn around and see him. She wasn't permitted to see him without the mask on.

The air in the room was different and made her light-headed, enhancing her pleasure. After he bound her, he removed his mask and uniform so she could no longer locate him by the sound of his breathing. Instead she was deaf and blind to his assault, gasping in shock when he first touched her body. He was silent as a wraith, and apparently didn't believe in gradual foreplay, because the first thing he did was kiss her clit. Isael learned that he liked to surprise her.

She also learned that his hands were not his own, and because he didn't have a normal level of feeling in them, he used his mouth…for everything.

Isael had previously thought of her vagina as a small part of her body, a minor part hidden away by her thighs and clothing. Under the touch of Vader's tongue, it seemed as vast as a mountain range, filled with mounts and valleys, all unique, all overly-sensitive. He explored places she didn't know she had, intent on tasting each millimeter, on making each nerve ending sing.

Isael sobbed with ecstasy. Her hardened nipples brushed the bed sheets with each gasp and her legs trembled with the effort to keep herself upright for him.

"Please…" she whispered, not knowing what she was asking for.

A long finger slid into her and she screamed.

"You are so…open for me," he hissed. "So eager."

In the back of her mind, Isael wondered if she should be ashamed. Instead she said, "Then take me. Please."

Vader groaned. "Not yet," he said. "Not yet."

Isael wept when his mouth replaced his fingers yet again. Finally, when she was near passing out and slippery with sweat, he entered her. She arched her back and moaned, her voice hoarse with crying out.

He kept his hand on the back of her neck, preventing her from looking at him as he fucked her. She felt like she was being taken by a ghost, a dark shadow of a man. In part, it was true.

Her body was limp and boneless as he found his release, roaring with pleasure. He pulled out her, breathing harshly, and stopped to stroke the soft skin of her ass. "I will miss this when your transfer is complete," he muttered.

Isael opened her eyes, suddenly remembering her promotion to Imperial Intelligence.

"I don't have to go," she said, a little eagerly.

He slapped her buttocks affectionately. "Yes. You do." Then he rose from the bed and left the room. When he returned and he was cloaked and masked again, and as he released her bonds, Isael felt like a dog being turned loose from its owner.

She said nothing but dressed and went back to her chamber.

* * *

Isael stood alone in her room, staring at the whip in her hands. Her transport to the command center for Imperial Intelligence was waiting. She couldn't delay much longer without raising suspicion. She had already been issued a new uniform; appropriately, it was black.

Vader hadn't sought her out again and she didn't have the nerve to look for him. He made it clear that they were through. Tears stung her eyes, blurring the image of the whip in front of her.

She had fought hard for a position like this, and now would throw it away for a position beneath him-quite literally. She had been brought low too easily.

She held the leather up to her face, smelling it and smelling him. Her fist tightened on the handle. Somewhere there were rebels who would pay for her sorrow. She stood a little straighter. She would live without him, and take out her anguish in cruelty.

It was what she was made for.

He had known it all along. He had made her.

END

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