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TITLE: Carpe Diem, Baby
AUTHOR: Prophecy Girl (prophecygirl@sithdreams.net)
RATING: NC-17
CHARACTERS: Darth Vader/OFC
CATEGORY: Humor, PWP, Het

SUMMARY: 1 Sith Lord. 1 Super Star Destroyer. 24 hours. Response to the DVEB fiction challenge.

DISCLAIMER: As much as I wish it were so, Lord Vader and his man carrot do not belong to me. I’m simply playing, and I promise, Uncle George, that I will put him back in the toy box when I’m done.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks, as always, to Alisha, for her help and encouragement.

~Dedicated to Lesley and Danielle, who inspired me to explore a lighter, snarkier Vader, whether they know it or not. A very special dedication to Kitty, I hope it makes you laugh.~

~ “So wash your face away with dirt; It don’t feel good until it hurts; So take this world and shake it; Come squeeze and suck the day; Come carpe diem baby.” ~

-Metallica

She looks completely out of place. There’s nothing about her soft, curvy body that fits here, surrounded, as it is, by engines and tools. Gripped loosely in her right hand is a hydrospanner, her left is busy prying apart the maintenance panels of the TIE she’s working on. Even though I’m on the other side of the maintenance bay, my aural amplifiers enable me to hear the constant stream of profanity flowing from her mouth as she struggles with the fused connectors.

Some idiot had figured it would be wise to solder the panel shut the last time the ship was serviced. I make a mental note to discover the identity of the ship’s previous mechanic and crush his windpipe… as a matter of principle. If a person doesn’t know what they’re doing, they shouldn’t be fixing things. Period.

My thoughts turn back to her, she’s definitely caught my interest. There are very few women aboard the Executor, and most of them either deliberately, or inadvertently, look so much like men that I barely notice them. Not this one, though. This one seems to be flaunting her femininity. I can just barely make out long, manicured nails on her slender fingers. I’m not sure where or how she’d get her nails done aboard my flagship, but she’s managed it. Interesting.

“Lieutenant,” I call to a young soldier several feet away.

“Yes, my Lord?” he answers immediately, snapping to attention and rushing to my side.

“I require information.” I pause a moment before continuing, attempting to sound nonchalant. “Who is that blonde woman?” A slight nod in her direction.

“Blonde, my Lord?” the Lieutenant looks confused.

Shit. ‘Way to make yourself look like a colorblind tool, Vader.’ The truth, though, is that I am colorblind in this Force-forsaken mask. I could tell the hair wasn’t dark, so I’d guessed.

“That woman, there,” I clarify. “Who is she?”

“I’m not sure, my Lord. Just some mechanic.”

‘What’s wrong with fixing things’? I want to ask. “And what color ‘is’ her hair, Lieutenant?” I question instead.

“Red, my Lord,” the soldier answers slowly.

Apparently I’ve confused the hell out of him.

“What color are her eyes?”

“I don’t know, my Lord. Shall I go look for you?”

“No!” I bark, a little swifter than I had intended. ‘Vader the tool,’ my inner voice taunts. “Is she attractive?”

“I… uh… well, yes, my Lord. I suppose she is.”

“You ‘suppose’?” I’m back to menacing again; the Lieutenant takes a subconscious step backwards.

“Yes. Yes, she is.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” I say, taking a moment to choke the life out of him with the Force before sweeping past his body. It wouldn’t do for rumors to get started. It wouldn’t do at all.

She remains oblivious to my presence until I am close enough to touch her. I admit, I’m tempted to do just that, what with her bent over, ass high in the air, still swearing. There’s something sexy about a woman with a dirty mouth.

When she finally hears the mechanical rasp of my breathing she straightens and whirls around. I’m pleased at her startlement. It’s been nearly impossible to sneak up on anyone in the last twenty years; my breathing is as graceful as an oral debate at a Sand People enclave, and my footsteps are as subtle as a bantha ballet. Whoever thought up this suit was a fucking genius, I swear.

I asked my Master once who had designed my life support system. Told him I wanted to hunt the guy down and release some rage on his incompetent ass. The Emperor seemed to find that endlessly amusing, had laughed about it for a good ten minutes, and would giggle at the start of every audience I had with him for the next month after that. I didn’t think it was all that funny.

He never did tell me

I make a mental note to strangle the next person I hear laughing, as a matter of principle. If a person is happy about something they don’t belong on my ship. Period.

She’s looking at me now, and her expression is almost… bored. If I were anyone other than Darth Vader she’d probably be ignoring me completely. Something sexy about that, too.

“What is your function here?” Peremptory, to the point. I’m not about to make myself look idiotic twice in ten minutes.

“I fix stuff,” she replies with a shrug, raking one manicured hand through her hair which, for the record, still looks blonde to me.

“How long have you been in my service?”

“Not long… my Lord,” she adds the title as an afterthought. Curiouser and curiouser…

“I see. And you… ‘fix stuff’?”

“What’s wrong with fixing stuff?” she asks bluntly.

I feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth. Definitely sexy. I’m starting to think I’d like to screw her, just bend her back over that workbench and have my way. It’s hard to tell if she’d be willing or not – she still looks thoroughly bored, and her mind is curiously blank – but compliance isn’t a criteria for my sexual endeavors. One of the perks of being a Sith Lord is that I can be something of a bastard whenever it suits me.

The idea is tempting and I mull it over for a moment. But, there’s the crew to consider. There are other mechanics milling about the maintenance bay, and the occasional deck officer passing by. I could always do it anyway; kill all the observers, throw the bodies out the airlock to prevent hysteria. I’m not sure how I’d explain the disappearance of that many men, but it’d be better than leaving the bodies lying around. Killing one random crew member every other day or so keeps up appearances. Killing two dozen at once would, most likely, lower morale.

I decide against it - come up with a better plan. “Do you know how to fix droids?” I ask.

“Yes…” she answers slowly, and some of the boredom disappears from her expression. She’s trying to figure out what I want. Good, good. This is going to be easy.

“I have a broken protocol droid in my private quarters. It needs fixing.”

“O…kay,” she raises one eyebrow.

“You will fix it,” I finish stupidly.

“Sure,” she shrugs, then adds, “my Lord.”

“Follow me,” I order, turning on my heels and stalking out of the maintenance bay. I reach out through the Force to make sure she’s actually following me. I’m not about to turn around.

The ship is massive and the trek to my quarters is unnerving. I know she’s still following me, I’ve been tapped into her psyche the entire time. She’s listing off engine sequences, visualizing wire connections for port stabilizers and reciting the basics of ion thruster composition. She’d tucked her hydrospanner into the belt of her uniform. I do manage to pry a name from her: Nissa.

When I get to the door of my suite I pause, gesture for her to enter, then follow her inside. It’s sparsely decorated – a few chairs in the front room, a desk and two chairs in the study, a training room, and a separate room for my hyperbaric chamber. No bed, no kitchen; I don’t have a use for them. I fix things, I don’t decorate them. Pad… she who will not be named, was big on decor. Maybe that’s why I hate the concept. A bit of a ‘fuck you’ in her direction, if you will.

Nissa is standing in the center of the room, looking slightly confused. I can’t imagine she’s studying the furniture, doesn’t seem like the type to care about that. “My Lord, where’s the droid?”

Oops. I open the door again and look out. I’m in luck, there’s a protocol droid shuffling down the hallway. I usher it inside, then put my fist through its’ central processing panel. The durasteel casing cracks and buckles. The wires hidden beneath spark, and the droid’s glowing eyes go dark. Metal appendages have their rewards.

“Here.”

She raises an eyebrow, then nods and smirks at me. She’s decided to play along. Obedience; I like that in a woman.

“Lord Vader,” Piett’s voice erupts from my comlink.

“Yes, Captain?” I ask, grabbing the device from my belt.

“Admiral Ozzel wishes an audience with you, my Lord.”

“Does he?” I bark menacingly. I can picture Piett’s face going white, glancing around wide-eyed. Truth be told, I like Piett, he’s a decent fellow; but it amuses me to watch him squirm.

“Shall I inform him that you are busy, my Lord?”

“Tell him I will contact him presently, Captain, from my study.” A glance over at my companion. She’s studying her nails, leaning against the wall. She doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to me at all.

“Wait here, I will return shortly.”

The only reaction I get from Nissa is a nod and a casual shrug of her shoulders.

I turn my back on her and head for my study, shutting the door tightly behind me before engaging the holocom to the bridge.

Ozzel. One of these days I’m going to choke the crap out of that fat fuck. My master hasn’t let me kill him yet; he knows how much I hate the Admiral, and finds it funny. My master being, well, the master, gets to be an even bigger bastard than me. Great, that’s the second time I’ve pictured the Emperor laughing at me today. Picturing the Emperor doing ‘anything’ isn’t all that pleasant. Being supreme ruler of the Galaxy is no reason to let oneself go physically. I wish I could get him to understand that.

“Admiral,” I growl, as his image flickers into being.

“My Lord, I wanted to verify our course with you.”

“Am I mistaken in thinking that I already explained our destination to you this morning during briefing?” I hate this man. Hate, hate, hate.

“No, my Lord, I simply wished to verify.”

“So you interrupted me to ask for information I already provided to you.”

“Well… yes.” He doesn’t appear to be even slightly ashamed of his idiocy, how that’s possible is beyond me.

“Do not disturb me again, Admiral,” I warn, switching off the com. I’m going to write this one down, so I don’t forget to tell the Emperor about it later. Eventually I’ll have enough evidence to justify killing him. It’s only a matter of time.

Exiting my study, I find Nissa crouched on the floor with my spare lightsaber in her hands. She’s taken off her uniform jumpsuit and draped it across a chair back. Rather than the standard-issue uniform normally worn underneath the jumpsuit, she’s wearing tight black pants and tank top. I should be pissed about that - the blatant disregard for regulation - but I’m aroused by it instead. Her hydrospanner is in front of her on the carpet. She’s studying the hilt of my ‘saber, turning it round and round in her hands.

“Just what do intend to do with that?” I ask her, torn between amusement and rage. That’s ‘my’ lightsaber! Who do you think you are, Obi-Wan, my-shit-don’t-stink, Kenobi?

“I was gonna take it apart,” she tells me matter-of-factly. “See how it worked.”

“You can’t just ‘see’ how a lightsaber works,” I snap indignantly.

“Why not?”

“Because.” ‘Good one, Vader. Real intelligent.’

She opens her mouth to respond, pauses a moment, then shuts it again before shrugging and setting the ‘saber down on a chair. “Should I fix the droid now?” she asks, standing up lazily.

“Not right now.”

She leans against the wall again; casual, there’s no fear in her at all. I’m hoping she’ll help me out, spare me the trouble of asking, of being blunt about what I obviously want. She does, in a way.

“Sex before lunch, Lord Vader?” she asks, and I can’t tell if she’s being serious. I like the way my name seems to roll off her tongue. It’s melodic, almost like a hum, or a purr.

“When I’m in the mood.”

Right answer, it seems. Nissa smiles and licks her lips, stepping closer to drop to her knees in front of me like it’s the most natural, casual thing in the world to do. Her hands rest lightly against my armored thighs. She doesn’t try to remove my codpiece, just waits patiently for my reaction. I guess that answers the question about willingness.

I reach down and take her chin in my hand, tilting her face up to look at me. Her eyes are calm and clear, expectant, but not anxious. She nods her permission. It’s all the encouragement I need.

I let go of her face, snap off my codpiece and toss it onto the floor. My hand glides once down my hardening length. I’m honestly not sure how this rather important part of my anatomy survived the accident. Don’t think the question hasn’t occurred to me. I asked my master once. He just smiled, patted my shoulder, and asked me to fetch him some juma juice.

Nissa leans forward, taking the tip of my cock into her mouth. She runs her tongue along the crown, laving the sensitive skin. With a sigh of contentment, I set one hand atop her head, resting it there, letting her take her time. She withdraws and runs her lips along the shaft, pausing to deliver light flicks of her tongue to all the right places.

I fumble with my respiration controls, adjusting them as I feel my breath quicken. My other hand is still on her head, and I lace my fingers through her hair, applying a little bit of pressure to let her know what I want.

She complies, opening her mouth and taking me in at a slow but steady pace. She pauses and I feel her gag when I hit the back of her throat; I tighten my grip on her hair, not letting her stop. A twitch of my hips and she’s swallowed me. She starts to suck, gentle pressure, her cheeks hollowing.

I stop her before I climax and pull away. She tries to move with me, not releasing me from her mouth; I grab her hair to hold her back.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, surprised.

“Nothing.”

It seems vulgar to fuck her on the floor of my sitting room, so I take her hand and lead her into my study. Once inside, I pick her up and set her down on the hard, durasteel top of my desk, tugging off her pants. They tear when I try to pull them past her shoes. She’s spread her legs instinctively, reaching for me, no hesitation. I run a finger through the folds of her sex and note the tell-tale glisten of her arousal.

She moans and spreads her legs wider, begging me to touch her again, so I do. It’s the first sign of emotion I’ve seen from her. I grasp my prick with one hand and glide it across her entrance before rubbing the head against the unsheathed bud of her clit. She moans again.

I push inside, surprised at her tightness. Briefly I wonder if she’s still a virgin, but quickly decide I don’t care one way or the other. Her breathing is shallow and ragged, but otherwise, she’s silent. Her hands grip my shoulders while her legs wrap around my waist, ankles locking behind my back.

I set the pace – fast and hard. My hands are on her hips, holding her hard enough to leave bruises. Her hair still looks blonde to me. Perhaps I’ll get a second opinion on the issue later; It’s going to bug me if I don’t.

Her muscles clench, milking me as she comes. I feel a surge of triumph at that – Sith Lord or no, it isn’t ‘all’ about me, not completely. I keep up the pace, pounding into her until I reach my own climax, not stopping until we’ve both come down from the pleasurable high.

I step back, untangling myself from her. She’s sprawled across my desk, a mixture of fluids trickling down her thighs. Reaching down, I pick up her pants and toss them to her, hoping she isn’t expecting a cuddle.

I walk Nissa to the door and signal to an Ensign passing by, ordering him to escort her back to the maintenance bay. Maybe I’ll send for her again, maybe not.

Back in my quarters I glance at the chronometer on the wall. Lunchtime. It doesn’t mean much to me in and of itself, since I don’t break for meals, but it means the day is half-done. I’ve done nothing but indulge myself all morning. I decide to do at least one productive thing before dinner.

“Lord Vader?”

Piett again. If he tells me Ozzel has more questions, I’m going to get angry. “Yes, Captain?”

“The Emperor has requested that you make contact with him, my Lord.”

Worse than Ozzel. Fabulous; just when I was feeling relaxed. “Thank you, Captain.”

I go back to my study and activate the private channel that connects me directly to the Emperor.

“My master,” I acknowledge, dropping to my knees.

“Lord Vader, I trust you are making progress in your search for the rebel base?”

“Probes have been sent to various systems. I will have them soon, my Master.” Probably. I hope.

“Good, good. Everything is proceeding according to plan.” I can’t see him with my head bowed, but I can picture that noxious grin. I don’t think he’s brushed his teeth in a decade. “Did you enjoy your gift, my apprentice?”

Gift? Oh shit, don’t tell me…

“What gift, Master?”

“The girl, of course.”

I should have known. “She did please me, Master.”

“Yes, I thought she would.”

The image blinks off, ending the communication. Dammit. Dammit all to hell. Now I’m going to wonder if Nissa really was a mechanic; or was she just another whore? Maybe one of the Emperor’s concubines? He couldn’t just let me have my fun, he had to ruin it by letting me know he’d planned the whole thing. I make a mental note to kill the next crew member I run into, as a matter of principle. If a person doesn’t want to die, they shouldn’t cross my path. Period. Does that count as productive, I wonder?

-FIN-

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