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Title: Reply to a Coruscanti Personal Ad
Author: Eritae Halcyon (eritae_halcyon@yahoo.com)
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Vader, OFC.
Category: PWP

Disclaimer: I am not making any money from this, and he doesn’t belong to me. Darn.

Summary: Lord Vader needs a concubine and you are fortunate enough to answer the ad he placed.

It’s 9 am and you are standing, outside the door at the address the message you received the day before told you to be at. For a few minutes you stare at that door, debating whether or not you should go in. Eventually curiosity wins out.

The receptionist gives little attention to you, merely looks at your datachip and sends you into a waiting room. The walls are pale green, an old trick used to subconsciously soothe. You select what looks to be the most comfortable chair and wait.

While you do, you run the personal ad you answered a month ago through your mind again: Wanted: companion for high ranking military officer. Must be intelligent, pleasant to look at and prepared to deal with the unexpected. The agency you are sitting in was listed as the contact. You had submitted your c.v., holo, and the other details that had been asked for, not really expecting an answer. How many men would consider you as an acceptable match for those requirements?

Then the message had arrived telling you to be here.

And now you are wondering if you should stay or leave.

The door opens. A Lieutenant comes in. He looks you up and down, and nods.

‘Suitable,’ he states. ‘Follow me.’

Suitable? you think as he leads you down a hall and to an airspeeder. Suitable for what?

‘Get in,’ he orders.

You hesitate. This may be your last opportunity to walk away, but the secrecy has you intrigued and now you really do want to meet this mysterious ‘military officer.’

You get into the airspeeder. The Lieutenant joins you.

‘You’re braver than most,’ he notes. ‘The last one refused to go with me.’

For a moment you stare at him.

‘What is going on?’ you finally ask.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he smoothly avoids the question.

The ‘speeder lands in a private hangar. You follow your escort through the corridors to an elegantly appointed sitting room where he leaves you alone once again. To occupy yourself, you wander about the room, admiring the artwork and view from the transparisteel windows. This place is on the square near the Imperial Palace, but before you can work out exactly where you are, the door opens behind you.

Measured steps. Even mechanical breathing.

You slowly turn around and find yourself face to mask with the second most powerful man in the Empire.

‘You may leave if you wish, now or after I tell you why you are here,’ he cooly states. ‘I have no intentions of holding you against your will.’

A nod is your answer. You will stay for his explanation, at least.

‘My position requires that I maintain a harem,’ he bluntly admits.

You don’t react. This is common knowledge. The Emperor himself has a number of concubines.

‘You have passed the screening process, and I have decided to spend a day in your company to see if you are suitable,’ he tells you.

A day? With him? Doing what?

‘Whatever you think will convince me to take you as one of my concubines,’ he replies to your thought. ‘You have exactly one day to do so.’

You stare at him, surprised. The stories are true, then. He’s a mind reader.

A low rumbling chuckle emerges from his mask.

You nod, but it isn’t really necessary. He already knew what your answer would be.

‘Very well,’ he decides, and for some reason you suspect he is relieved or perhaps pleased that you have chosen to stay. ‘Introduce yourself and tell me why I should keep you.’

You suspect he isn’t interested in a summary of your c.v. Nor does he care to listen to you repeat any of the information you sent to the agency. He’s already looked at all of that. No, the Sith Lord wants to hear something else from you.

And you aren’t sure what that is just yet.

To buy time, you gather up your courage and step closer to him. He doesn’t move, but in those few brief seconds, you know what you will say.

‘I don’t need to introduce myself to you, my lord,’ you boldly state, ‘You know everything about me. You wouldn’t have selected me otherwise.’

You are sure his agents and personal assistants have been most thorough in their investigations. If you didn’t measure up to whatever standard he is using, you would not be here, in this room, with him.

He gives another amused chuckle.

‘You are quick witted,’ he notes. ‘As I expected.’

Expected? You ponder this a moment. Intelligence was one of the qualities listed in the ad. Obviously your education has been taken into account.

You answer his compliment with a smile and a, ‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘The formality,’ he dismisses it with a wave of his hand, ‘is unnecessary.’

‘But I think it is, my lord,’ you immediately counter. ‘You need the distance it gives you.’

He pauses, nods, and you suspect he has just tested you. Would Lord Vader tolerate undue familiarity from someone he has just met? Certainly not.

The silence becomes uncomfortable. Should you take the lead or wait for him to make a suggestion?

‘A tour of my castle?’ he finally offers.

You suspect he is trying to put you at ease.

You walk at his side, noting that all of the public rooms he shows you, like the one you were in, are tastefully decorated. There is no wasted opulence, no tackiness here. The Sith Lord has impeccably good taste when it comes to his home.

Then he takes you to the private areas, to his harem, to the rooms that could be yours. Water chimes against stone in a fountain; the carpets are thick and lush under your feet. No expense has been spared on creature comforts.

He watches, unspeaking, while you wander through one of the ten suites. You run your fingers along the wall, trace a path to the bedroom and back out to the common room again. Few on Imperial Centre can afford an apartment this size.

It is far larger than the few modest rooms you call home.

‘If I choose you,’ he tells you, ‘you will be the first and may select whichever suite pleases you.’

You let your hand fall away from the wall. The first of ten. Ten women who will call these rooms home. A modest number compared to the hundreds of concubines the Emperor is rumoured to have.

‘If I am attending a formal function, you might be selected as my companion and accompany me to the event; if I require your services, you will come to my quarters. Otherwise, you will live here, unless, of course,’ he continues, ‘you are foolish enough to betray my trust.’

There is a warning in his voice, a hint of danger. Your eyes meet the lenses of his mask. He knows the pain of a woman’s betrayal, you suspect, and will not tolerate such from the likes of you.

You don’t flinch.

‘My loyalty has never been questioned, my lord,’ you remind him. ‘Once my word is given, I will never break it.’

A gloved hand reaches over, a finger brushes across your cheek. It is the first physical contact between you and you shiver despite yourself.

‘I know you will keep your word,’ he quietly confirms. ‘Despite what it might cost you.’

You stare as he turns around and heads out of the harem’s common room. Just how much does he know about you?

By the time you return to his castle’s public areas, you are hungry and ready for your noon meal. Your stomach growls despite your attempts to keep it quiet. The second time it happens, the Sith Lord turns his head towards you and laughs.

‘I tend to forget that my guests require a different form of sustenance than I do,’ he wryly admits.

There is a casualness in his tone, a not quite comradeliness to it, which invites a reply.

You are not the galaxy’s best conversationalist but he seems to be trying to draw you out. It is almost as if he knows your shyness is your weakness; almost as if he wants to help.

You take the opening he has created.

‘I tend to wake and eat early in the morning, my lord, so it has been quite a while since I ate,’ you tell him. ‘I like to watch the sunrise, what little there is visible. It reminds me of home.’

Home. You allow yourself to grieve for a moment. Your home is gone. Like many others, it was caught in the conflict between the Empire and rebels. A casualty of the war. Your family and friends are forever out of reach, separated from you by the impenetrable veil of death. You have no messy past that might return to haunt you, no family ties, no former obligations which might conflict with the loyalty the Sith Lord will expect and demand from you.

Is this why he decided you deserved a closer look?

He gives no sign he has noticed your shift in mood, only wistfully reveals, ‘I would look up at the stars as a child and wonder if I would visit all of them someday.’

The old fashioned wooden doors swing open at his touch, and you follow him into an elegant, intimate dining room.

‘I have seen little of the galaxy,’ you admit to him. ‘Only my homeworld and here.’

No, you are no galactic tourist. You were sent to university here and forced to stay when you had no home to return to. Your job as a lowly researcher pays only enough to keep you fed, clothed, and housed. There is little left to spend on frivolous things like vacations or trips off-planet, and even the dress you are wearing - the best one you own - is an old one, gleaned from one of the discount shops in the depths of the city. Its style is out of date by two decades.

‘Then you should travel more,’ he suggests.

He has either forgotten what your job is, or is trying to make small talk. You assume it’s the latter.

‘Working as a low level civil servant doesn’t pay well enough for that,’ you remind him, ‘but I am curious about a number of worlds. Perhaps you have visited some of them?’

You take the chair he indicates and watch him settle himself across the table from you. Your lunch is on it, waiting for you to start eating. He must have signalled an aide somehow to make sure this would be ready for you.

‘What planets would you like to know about?’ he offers.

While you eat, you ask about the places you have only seen in holos. Only when you mention the Emperor’s homeworld does he finally tire of your questions.

‘Enough,’ he silences you with a wave of his hand. ‘I would prefer to speak of other things.’

You push the dessert bowl away. His patience has limits you don’t want to test, nor do you intend to be on the receiving end of one of his infamous reprimands. Despite your curiosity as to why Naboo is off limits for discussion, you won’t press the topic further.

Lunch is followed by a leisurely stroll down to the hangar you arrived in hours ago. There is no indication you are going anywhere, but you suspect the Sith Lord is up to something.

He pulls you past where the various ‘speeders and his shuttle are stored to a workshop. Bits and pieces of equipment are strewn about. Several holo projectors display images of ships duplicated in model form on the shelf. A few old style paper blueprints are on the desk which is obviously one of his haunts.

It is a room very much like the one your father spent his idle hours in.

‘I like to design fighters in my spare time,’ he confesses, picking up one of the scale models. ‘It’s a hobby of mine.’

So the Sith Lord has a life outside of his command duties. There is far more to this man than meets the eye.

But you suspect you know why he has brought you here to this specific room. And it isn’t to discuss his pastime.

Colour drains from your face. That was years ago, you decide. And you have more than paid in full for what you did. Surely he can’t hold that against you.

‘Your loyalty to your father was commendable,’ he states, examining the fighter in his hand, ‘but if what you did ever became public, there are those who would still consider your actions reprehensible.’

‘I gave my word,’ you whisper. ‘I made a promise.’

‘A promise to a dying man,’ he reminds you.

His tone is unflinching.

‘I couldn’t leave him in pain,’ you admit.

‘So you killed him instead,’ he flatly states.

You spin away from him. It wasn’t like that you want to protest. You had only smuggled the drugs into the hospital, not administered them.

‘I was a child - I didn’t know what he planned to do,’ you tell him, anguished now. ‘I thought he would just use the pain killers to help cope with the treatments like he said he would.’

‘You are telling the truth about this,’ he notes.

He knows.

All you can do is nod a confirmation to him. You are far too upset to answer verbally.

You have lived with this guilt for too many years for it not to affect you in this way.

‘It is foolish to keep blaming yourself for what he did,’ he scolds a little, his voice losing all of the menace which was just in it. ‘You are responsible for your own choices, not his.’

You nod again. For years you have told yourself this, but this is the first time you have heard it from someone else.

‘I demand total loyalty from those around me,’ he warns. ‘If I asked you to do the same, I would expect your obedience.’

At your third nod, he reaches over, brushes the hair off your cheek.

‘But I would never ask it of you,’ he softly decides.

His workshop is left behind as you go back to the dining room.

Dinnertime for you.

An aide appears, calls him away to answer an urgent summons from the Emperor, so you have your meal in solitude.

You need the time to yourself to think.

When the Sith Lord returns it has grown as dark outside as the lights from Imperial Center will allow. You are staring out at the skyline, debating what you should do.

‘There is a better view from the observation deck,’ his voice reveals from the doorway.

You go with him, settle into the two chairs out on the balcony.

‘We must look like one of those old couples from home,’ you tease him. ‘Sitting on the veranda watching the world go by.’

He laughs a little at that and you ease into small talk about insignificant things once again.

‘Why did you answer the ad?’ he finally asks.

You drop your eyes to the floor. This could be embarrassing.

‘I was lonely and curious,’ you admit, ‘and the wording intrigued me. It was mysterious and secretive, so I replied.’

Loneliness. You know that emotion all too well. Your losses separate you from your colleagues, isolate you from your peers, distance you from everyone around you. Mark you as different.

You suspect the Sith Lord understands loneliness as well.

When he says nothing in answer, you boldly ask, ‘Why did you place it anyway? There must be all sorts of eligible candidates among the nobility and in the Imperial court.’

‘Surely you can work that out,’ he teases a little.

Another test?

The obvious reply is that it was the simplest way to find who he wanted, but you won’t tell him that. He merely tips his head and chuckles at the thoughtful look on your face.

“Must be intelligent, pleasant to look at and prepared to deal with the unexpected.” the ad had read.

He needs someone he can talk to, you realize, not a woman who would only decorate his arm and hang off his every word. If all the Sith Lord was interested in was physical appearance, he would simply have contracted the required number of courtesans from the appropriate guild.

‘You want someone who would be a true companion for you,’ you tell him, ‘one with a mind of her own, not some vapid bit of court fluff or paid courtesan who is all looks and no brains.’

There must be still more to it than that, you decide, when he reaches over and brushes your cheek with his gloved finger once again.

‘There is,’ he replies to your thought.

The air between you crackles with unaddressed tension.

He holds his hand out, offering it to you, offering himself to you.

‘The others who made it this far refused to go with me,’ he quietly states. ‘I will understand if you do not.’

You have spent the day getting to know one another. He has become, well, not quite a friend, but you do trust him enough to go with him. And he is vulnerable now, exposed. Somehow you know your refusal will hurt him deeply. You will not do that to him.

You take his hand and let him pull you to your feet.

The Sith Lord leads you through the corridors, urgency behind each step. It seems he does not want to wait, to postpone this any longer.

You reach his private suite, deep in his castle. His personal rooms are spartan, only what is necessary is contained in them. He motions you inside, shuts and locks the door, then pauses.

Air hisses; medications taint the air. You feel a bit light-headed while you watch him remove his helmet and pour himself a drink of some sort.

His flesh is pale, bleached, his head bald; two terrible scars mar his face and scalp. It is the face of a military commander - a face you could let yourself grow to love. For a moment your eyes meet. You keep your gaze steady, allowing no fear, no reaction to show.

There is no scary monster here - beneath the mask he is a physically fit, if battle-worn, middle-aged man.

His cloak is thrown aside, tossed out of the way. Your breaths are shallower as your body reacts to the rising levels of oxygen in the air.

‘Relax,’ he instructs, ‘lie down for a few minutes until your system adjusts.’

You follow his advice. The bed is firm underneath you. It is spread with sheets of soft mothsilk - expensive, rare, decadent. They feel luxurious against your cheek as you sprawl across the bedcovers.

The sound of fabric and leather draws your attention back to him. His armour is off now, only a skin tight bodysuit remains. You stare at him, fascinated as he slowly strips that off.

His eyes never leave yours as he opens the front seam and pulls one arm, then the other, free of the fabric. The scars surprise you. He was badly burned at some point. And he has cybernetic replacements for his hands and part of each arm. Perhaps injuries sustained at the same time he was burnt?

‘You are not revolted?’ he asks. ‘Not repulsed, afraid or disturbed?’

You shake your head. So what if his body is not perfect. Yours certainly isn’t.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ you tell him, sure this is another test of his.

He stalks towards you, stands beside where you are lying on the bed. You can see the lights flash on his life support’s control box, see every line, every scar on his broad, muscled chest.

‘Some would say it does,’ he coldly states.

‘To them, but not to me,’ you reassure him.

You catch one of his metal hands in yours and tug on it. Time is running out and there are only a few hours left in the day.

A small smile appears. At a wave of his hand, the lights dim, bathing the room in darkness and deep shadows. It suits this place, suits him.

His bodysuit falls to the floor, but he doesn’t let you see what lies below his waist. Instead you are rolled over to the middle of the bed, making room for him to take his place beside you.

You don’t resist.

You are far too unsure of yourself to try opposing what he wants.

A kiss brushes against your ear, then a tongue slowly traces its curves. You shiver in response, but he doesn’t stop. Suction is applied to your earlobe, then his lips trail across your cheek, find your mouth. To steady yourself, you go to touch his face but he pushes your hands away.

You are supposed to be the one doing the convincing, the persuading, but he is the one seducing you, not the other way around.

He nibbles your lower lip, silences your soft moan with his mouth on yours. His kisses are demanding ones, deep, probing. Your mouth opens under his onslaught and you can taste the sweetness from the drink he had finished minutes before.

A hand pulls at the top of the gown you are wearing. When the fasteners refuse to budge, he rips it open, tearing the light material in several places. He has just shredded your best dress and you don’t care.

His lips move to your now exposed chest. He finds a nipple, swirls his tongue around it, exerts the gentlest of suction, and pins you to the bed with his weight. With each pull on your breast from his mouth, your body reacts, arches up against him.

‘You are a passionate little creature,’ he comments when he sits up for a moment, allowing you to catch your breath.

Then his hands are around your face, his lips are on yours again, and you aren’t given the opportunity to answer. His kiss is different this time. He thrusts his tongue in and out of your mouth, his motions slow, teasing, daring you to respond in kind. When you do, the faintest of tremors passes through his body.

Emboldened by your success, you finally reach up and touch him, brush fingers across his chest, trace paths around to his back and pull him closer.

He pushes away in answer, leans on an elbow and looks down at you. The measuring look on his face unsettles you a little. Another test? And have you passed or failed this one? He gives a hint of a smile at your thought and reaches down with his free hand to caress you. Fingertips graze across your stomach, head lower, find their destination, and slowly stroke you.

Your body jumps at the unexpected contact but he doesn’t give you any respite. The second touch is just as firm, and the third makes you start to shudder. After a few more, muscles react inside you, contract, and you writhe at his touch, all the while begging him to never stop.

He is playing you as if you were the finest of instruments and he, a virtuoso musician.

‘But I think it’s more than just passion,’ he quietly notes.

His fingers have moved lower again, gently probing you, feeling the slickness and wet between your legs. When he goes to slide one inside you, you shake your head and try to pull his hand away.

‘Not now, not yet,’ you scold him a little when your attempt to stop his exploration of your body fails. ‘It’s my turn.’

‘No,’ he firmly refuses, withdrawing his hand. ‘You may do as you please to me later, after I am done with you.’

Who is auditioning for whom here?

You open your mouth to protest, then think better of it and snap it shut.

When he moves you about, spreads your legs and shifts himself into position between your knees, you don’t complain. You are playing by his rules now, and he expects obedience from you in this.

‘Good,’ he praises when you hook your feet behind his back, complying with his wishes.

You stare up at him, your thoughts crystal clear. Up to this point, you could have walked away and not looked back, but now - now that you are going through with this, you are uncertain. An emotion you didn’t expect to feel has started to stir in you.

He doesn’t give you the opportunity to have anymore second thoughts.

‘Kiss me,’ he orders.

And the instant you do, the pressure between your legs increases until your body gives way under him. The Sith Lord is a big man in more ways than one, you ironically note as you are uncomfortably, painfully stretched around him.

*The pain won’t last,* you hear in your mind as he reassures you, *Your body will quickly adjust to my size.*

He moves slowly, in and out, in a gentle, relaxing rhythm. Tension is evident in the tight muscles of his neck and you know his control is held by the finest of threads. Your pain slowly melts away at his masterful touch, replaced by the twinges of an approaching orgasm.

He feels it as well, increases his pace, the depth and power behind his thrusts.

*Wait for me,* he orders when you don’t think you can any longer.

‘I can’t,’ you gasp into his mouth, breaking your kiss when the friction from his movements strokes that particular spot inside you again. ‘Can’t, can’t, can’t,’ you repeat as you push up against him, your muscles pulsing around him.

Fingers dig into your shoulders, leave bruises, as he allows his body to respond to yours. His thrusts are hard, deep, as he cries aloud in ecstasy.

Then he collapses on top of you, pinning your sweat soaked body to the bed.

He stays there, motionless except for his hand in your hair. His touch is gentle, soothing, nothing like what you expect from him.

It is several long minutes before he moves, slides onto his side and pulls you close. His chest panel pokes you in the back and his hand caresses your stomach, warming it and relaxing you. When you try to say something, a finger on your lips silences you.

Silences the three words you want to tell him.

The three words he needs to hear from you.

‘I know what you are going to say,’ he whispers in your ear, ‘and I am going to keep you because of it.’

THREE MONTHS LATER

You are in your office, working, when the nausea hits you. The datapad falls onto the top of your desk with a crash while you bolt for the ‘fresher. No, not again you think.

Booted footsteps make you look up from where you are sitting on the floor. His Lordship has sensed your distress and decided to check on you.

You have long since passed your final test - the only test that really mattered to him - on that night three months ago.

‘You have been sick again,’ he observes, helping you to your feet.

‘Yes, my lord,’ you answer.

You smile and let him hold you steady in his arms. His hand gently caresses your stomach, soothing it, quieting the fluttering you feel within.

The galaxy may quake at his glance, but you have nothing to fear from him, from the man who is your lord.

Your child’s father.

Your husband.

Your love.

FIN

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