I wrote some porn, I made myself sad
Embers
By Alcalina
The Clones march beneath rain so thin it feels like mist. Their commander isn't happy, so they keep their visors to the mucky ground not to draw his attention.
The mission has been a wreck from the start.
Due to the inclement weather and some unfortunate encounters, it has taken twice as long as expected. On top of this, the intel they were following proved itself outdated; the fugitive Jedi had left Antiquity weeks ago, not long after the Republic's fall.
All went to shavit, and nothing as planned.
That would look great on my tombstone, Vader thinks, grateful for the mask hiding his ugly grin.
He's forced himself to come, in spite of his aversion toward the planet, and all for nothing. Now, he's stuck in this moist hell, half a day's march from the plateau where their ship is waiting.
The neurotoxin and the vitapaste are running out, after whole days in the middle of nowhere. The sick sunlight filtering through the clouds converges onto his sagging cape; his skin is damp even with the insulation and the thermostatic system. His scars itch. The mud cakes his already heavy boots, making his stiff gait resemble a limp.
Toward the end of the war, for weeks, he had been crossing these same plains with the man he had called Master - perennially drenched, leading soldiers not different from these.
That might be when it all started falling apart, Vader considers.
Over last months, he thought the same about many places, many moments. Each of them seemed the crucial one.
Nevertheless, this is it.
The green tent, the pelting rain. It all began here.
He clearly needs his medicines, for he's not thinking straight; it wasn't him in the tent. That boy died months ago.
"The electric storm that has been cutting us off has not decreased, sir," says the ranking Clone, a hint of hesitation in his voice. "We won't reach the destination before dark. I suggest we camp at the foot of the mountain, near the village. They build on draining rock, so it will be drier. And there will be fresh water."
The Clone is holding his headgear under his arm, rivulets running down his forehead.
His familiar features annoy Vader, the way all that stayed the same does. He waits until the man squirms under his stare before reprising his march.
No village, no mountain. His bacta tank, instead - leave this hideous mud ball behind and forget all about it.
They proceed straight across the plain for another hour. At this point, Vader is considerably slower than his men.
He detests them; cannon fodder with whole, efficient bodies, effortlessly doing what he's struggling so hard to.
He loathes his slow movements, the burden of his suit, the sting where it scrapes his torn flesh, the insufferable sound of his own breathing. Yet, all this hatred can't help him straighten his back and get to that kriffing ship.
"S- sir..." stutters the Clone again, cautiously approaching him from behind. "I was considering sending some scouts ahead. They will quickly return with what you... what we need from the ship."
The next step Vader takes makes him falter under his own weight.
The Clone reaches out but providentially backs off before touching him. He then pretends to be securing his blaster, coyly looking away.
"Send those scouts," Vader barks, swallowing the urge to wriggle his neck. "We wait at the village."
Said village consists of a dozen permacrete huts. Each one has a pointy roof with a hole on top, from where a trail of smoke rises.
The smell of burnt green wood combines with the mouldy one permeating the planet. Quite oddly, the resulting earthy scent is not entirely unpleasant.
Human children and women come peeking from the shabby doors as the Clones pitch their tents right next to them.
Vader quivers into his suit, fantasising of tearing it off - it allows him breathing, so it really shouldn't make him feel like he's suffocating.
The Kouhunin is gone for good, and his aches are slowly waking up. He has been trying to use them to draw strength from the Dark Side, though with poor results.
'Wrong day,' he thinks to himself. 'Wrong week, month, year, life.'
An old woman dressed in rags is confabbing with the same Clone as before. They turn to look at him, at some point.
If I pass out now, I'll have to kill them all later, is Vader's confused thought.
The Clone comes closer to shout over the increasing rain that Lord Commander can find shelter into the head-woman's hut, if he wishes.
"The village men are harvesting Teggi fungus roots in the mudflats. They won't be back for days," he adds without any apparent reason.
Vader dreads spending another night in a tent, here on this planet, especially in such detrimental physical conditions.
He fears the boy's ghost.
This is why he nods and follows the Clone, too focused on keeping his steps safe and steady to reply anything.
The man opens the door for him, and he enters alone.
A straw pallet on the bare rock and a dying fire in the middle; drier, warmer.
Six hours to go, six to come back, estimates Vader as he awkwardly sits near the flame. Pass the night, and the scouts will get you your meds.
This mess is all his impatience's fault.
The med-droids had warned him that the suit needed finishes, the mecha-parts testing, his body healing.
The first time out, however, he had killed the target and came back to his pressurised chamber smoothly; so encouragingly he's got ahead of himself.
The worst part of the actual situation, however, isn't having to beat his head hard against his physical limitations but learning how having someone witness to them feels.
Drowsing in the warmth, his back against the dank wall, Vader thinks that he would have endured getting to the ship, had he been alone. He could've crawled all the way back, if necessary.
Nevertheless, when he stumbled in the mud, hours before, he worried what the soldiers would see.
Killing them might not be enough to unstick their pity from his skin - without considering, he can't even reach for the Force, he probably wouldn't have been able to kill anyone.
He better get some rest and take care of that tomorrow.
The door cracks open.
A hooded figure comes in, projecting huge shadows against the ceiling, and starts stoking up the embers. The individual studies him with the crouched, circumspect stance that's typical of some small creatures.
Finally, a bony arm stretches out from under the robe, and a clay bowl is put beside his boots.
In his fevered haze, Vader manages to think that it should've knocked.
"Dinner," announces the heavily accented, high-pitched voice of a girl.
For a while, the only sounds are the fire crackle and Vader's grating wheeze.
"No?" She asks, pulling her hood back to reveal disappointed hazel eyes and a scruffy mass of curls.
The breathing stops abruptly. Vader tells him himself he's hallucinating.
Does this girl actually look like she did when they first met? He wants to call out for somebody to confirm it, but no one is left who can.
And, well, the resemblance is so marked it can't be real. It must be the fever.
"Leave," he commands, trying to avert his gaze.
The girl slips out of her dripping cloak, instead, spreads it open near the flame with a resolute pout, and starts stirring the soup.
It's been a while since his orders were last ignored.
"Take it off," she orders back in her broken Basic, her chin pointed at his mask.
Vader doesn't move, so the girl gets on her knees to take care of it personally. He seizes her wrist before she can, though, and she returns to be the wary pray she was moments before. The dismay in her eyes somehow rubs off on him.
You had it coming, Vader thinks, relinquishing the grip to fiddle with the magnetic clasps on his gorget. When the helmet hisses open, he lets it on the ground.
The dim light blinds him, the unfiltered air scorches his nostrils, throat, and lungs. Yet, he gasps in relief.
The girl doesn't even try to conceal her gape.
"Kriff," she comments under her breath.
Vader laughs; a scratchy sound that confuses him and makes all his body ache.
"Kriff," he echoes, very softly. "Indeed."
With undeniable pragmatism, the girl dips the spoon and raises it to his lips, catching Vader so off guard he allows it in.
This means his first real food is velvety, lukewarm fungi-soup.
I was ready to slaughter thirty men just for seeing me stagger, he thinks, what am I going to do with her, now?
He shouldn't be doing any of this, of course. Besides the additional sufferings he is inflicting on himself, he risks an infection with each breath, each mouthful. He asks himself why he is acting this irrational and then why he should care about consequences, anyway.
The closer they get to the bowl bottom, the more satisfied the girl seems, the harder looking away becomes.
She's wearing something coarse that could've once been a sack, girded at her waist by a string. Her scent reminds him of cut grass, it has nothing to do with the one he remembers. The colour and shape of her lips hurts, though. Vader is enthralled by the way they almost imperceptibly part in sync with his own.
When they're done, the girl thoughtfully wipes his mouth with her thumb, brazenly staring back. 'It seems you saw a ghost,' she'd say if she remembered the Basic for 'ghost'.
"Go, now," Vader mutters, unable to hold her scrutiny anymore.
The girl gives him an odd frown. The man clearly needs a cold compress or something - but he needs other things too, and she's too young to decide what's more urgent.
In the end, the look on his face convinces her. She leans slightly forward and waits immobile - once again, just like cautious animals do. When he's proven himself unharmful, she fills the remaining gap to make their lips graze.
Vader lets her, numb.
He tries to remember the last time his skin touched someone's else and finds out he better don't.
'Pity,' repeats in a loop inside his mind; something he had feared but has never actually received.
Her tongue dabs at his lips gently; all she does to him is delicate.
The girl takes his gloved hand - it isn't even my hand, Vader confusedly thinks - and drags it from her flank down to her buttocks, before starting fumbling with his codpiece.
He has to help her, as who designed the thing clearly had no idea he'd been ever doing this. They get rid of it and strive to undo his belt together.
When they finally succeed, the girl gasps and covers her mouth. Her eyes get wet, her hands unsteady as she cautiously touches him.
"Hurts?" She murmurs.
Vader tilts his head back and hums, his eyes closed.
He remembers another gentle girl, long ago. His body reacts to the touch, to the memory, leaving him disconcerted.
She straddles him and searches his mouth again.
Vader kisses back, this time, pulls her closer until her stomach is pressed against the sharp angles of his chest-plate.
Into his haunted mind, he lifts her lightless body by her neck, pins it to the ground, makes her cry.
In truth, though, he can barely touch her.
The girl tucks the skirt edge under her chin, her hand reaching down between them. Vader holds his breath as she brushes against him, breaks out in a muffled wail when she settles on his hips.
He had never had her when she looked like this; she was already a grown woman, a Senator. But he had wanted her. In his dreams - in his nightmares - this is what she still looks like.
The girl moves slowly, rubbing her damp cheek against his, pulsating into his arms like a small bird. Vader holds at her waist to support her placid pace but doesn't dare to urge her.
It won't be enough, some remote part of his brain computes, she's too gentle.
This is why the little death takes him by surprise; not a tide but a flood, sudden and all at once.
As he cries her name, pain and pleasure prove how alike they are.
Later, it's got cold and dark.
The girl is gone, and Vader is too tired to take care of the fire himself.
Forgive my mistakes. Correct them, if you're feeling generous.
My attempt at canon Vader and canon Vaderdala
(working titles: 'wish it were fireproof', 'crispy vader', 'suitless Vader is for pussies'.)
This story is a reward for Lisuli79, a dear friend that accomplished something difficult (go find her on DeviantArt, it's worth it!)
Waiting for it kept her motivated and helped me take a step out of my dry spell.
I'm insecure about this whole thing.
Be kind.