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Subtle Temptress

by Red and Dark Lady

Category: ABH, PWP, romance (romance? Really?), some angst too.

Pairing: Vader/you

Summary: What?

* * *
 

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 say, 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?
 
 

~~~~~~~~~~fin~~~~~~~~~

October 2000

Feedback, please, to dzohhar@yahoo.com and dark-lady@blueyonder.co.uk

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