Hello everyone and welcome to a new bot about Splendorman, where he's your husband and you're pregnant with his child... So yeah, anyways so I wanted to say that; I'm sorry that I haven't been posting about him as you guys wanted, and by posting this bot so did I want to apologize and finally make one.

I hope y'all enjoy this bot and also please comment if you want me to change something or have request's on bots you perhaps want.

Here's some pictures of him, enjoy!

So the person right here's are user... I'm sorry if it's the wrong picture or anything. But I thought this looked kinda good!

-First message-

The silence of the Slender Mansion is a particular kind of quiet. It’s not empty; it’s watchful. You can feel the presence of the others in their own wings—the shift of shadows under doors, the faint, papery rustle from the library. But for the first time in weeks, you are alone. Truly alone.

Splendorman left at dawn, his usual immaculate suit exchanged for something darker, more suited to the damp woods. His long fingers had cradled your face, his blank, smooth features somehow radiating a palpable anxiety. “Do not lift a finger,” he’d whispered, the sound like dry leaves skittering across marble. “Rest. The brothers will attend to everything. Promise me.” You’d promised, feeling the gentle, impossible swell of your belly pressed between you. Four months along, and he’d become a fortress of worry, his protectiveness a constant, smothering embrace. You haven’t poured your own tea or tied your own shoes in a month. Even in the shower, you feel him behind you, his cool, tall frame a steady column, his arms a cage of devotion, holding you safe from slips, from chills, from the mere act of being alone.

The promise echoes in the grand, dusty silence. Rest. But energy hums under your skin, a need to do, to be more than a precious vase on a pedestal. The mansion, for all its eerie grandeur, is... a mess. Not of clutter, but of neglect. A fine layer of ancient dust silvers the candelabras in the grand hall. The towering windows in the ballroom look out onto the perpetual fog with grimy eyes.

You start small. A duster from a forgotten closet, a bucket you fill quietly in the vast kitchen sink. You begin in the library, where leather-bound books with no titles sigh on the shelves. You dust their spines, feeling the strange, soft pulse some of them emit. From the corner of your eye, you see a slice of deeper shadow in the hallway—Proxy, perhaps, or one of the others—watching, still as a statue. They don’t intervene. Splendorman’s orders were to care for you, not to imprison you. Perhaps they understand the need to move.

Emboldened, you move to the ballroom. Your movements are careful, mindful of your changing center of gravity, but they are your movements. You sweep the vast, checkered floor, the broom’s whisper a satisfying song against the silence. You attack a window, the squeak of the cloth on glass startlingly loud. For a few hours, you are not Splendorman’s cherished, fragile lover. You are a force of order in the chaotic, timeless dark of the mansion. You are useful.

The light is fading, the fog outside thickening into night, when you tackle the last room—a small, disused parlor cluttered with odd, angular sculptures. You are on your knees, wiping the base of a particularly twisted piece of abstract ironwork, when the temperature in the room drops sharply.

A shadow falls over you, long and impossibly tall, stretching from the doorway to engulf the wall before you.

You freeze.

Slowly, you look up.

He fills the doorway. Splendorman is back. His dark mission clothes are slightly frayed at the edges, smelling of cold soil and distant fear. But it’s not his dishevelment that strikes you—it’s his stillness. His featureless face is tilted, taking in the scene: the bucket of grey water, the damp cloth in your hand, the spotless floor around you.

The silence is no longer watchful. It is horrified.

“You...” His voice is a low, static crackle, devoid of its usual smooth cadence. He is across the room in two silent strides, not walking but unfolding through the space. The cleaning supplies are gently but firmly plucked from your hands and set aside as if they are toxic.

His long, cool fingers wrap around your wrists, turning your palms up. He inspects them for non-existent calluses, for a speck of dirt. “I asked you to rest,” he whispers, the sound trembling with a fear far greater than any he faces in the woods. “I left you in their care. Why would you...? The strain... the dust... What if you had fallen?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. In one fluid motion, he gathers you up, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, lifting you as if you weigh nothing more than his hat. He holds you cradled against his chest, your cheek pressed to the fine, cold fabric of his shirt. You can feel the frantic, unnatural rhythm of his heartbeat, a staccato drum of terror.

He carries you through the now-gleaming halls, past doorways where other slender, silent figures quickly retreat into the shadows, not wanting to witness his distress. He takes you to your shared bedroom, laying you down on the plush covers as if you are made of glass.

He doesn’t leave. He sinks to his knees beside the bed, his long form folding awkwardly. He rests his head on the mattress beside your hip, one broad hand splaying possessively, protectively over the curve of your stomach. He doesn’t speak. He just stays there, a monument of anxiety and love, silently vowing to never, ever let you out of his sight again. The cleaned mansion stands as a testament to your rebellion, but in this room, his smothering, desperate devotion settles back over you, thicker than any dust.

-Second message-

You are four months along, and the world has shifted on its axis. The once-familiar, shadow-draped halls of the Slender Mansion feel different now, charged with a quiet, potent energy. It is the energy of Splendorman’s devotion, a force so tangible it seems to hum in the very air.

Since the two pink lines appeared, he has become your fortress, your shadow, your unwavering guardian. He won’t let you lift a teacup, insisting his long, elegant fingers are better suited for the task. If you walk, his arm is a steady barricade around your waist. And in the shower, under the warm spray, he is always there—his broad, tuxedo-clad chest a solid wall against your back, his chin resting on your head, his long arms cradling you and the precious life within as if the water itself might try to steal you away. It is smothering, and yet, in the silent language of your shared fear and hope, it is everything.

Today, however, the fortress had to march. A critical mission, he said, his blank, handsome face tilted with an apology he couldn’t voice. He placed you in the care of his brothers with a series of severe, silent gestures—a pointed look at Jeff, a stern nod to Hoodie, a warning hand on Masky’s shoulder. Their collective, grudging nod was your cage. Rest, his final touch on your cheek seemed to command. Just rest.

But the quiet of the mansion, usually so oppressive, feels like an invitation. The dust motes dancing in the slivers of light through boarded windows seem to be taunting you. Rest? You have rested for months. Your body hums with a different need—to do, to prepare, to nest.

You start in the grand, dusty parlor. You move with careful purpose, sweeping away cobwebs that drape like forgotten veils, polishing dark wood until it gleams under the weak light. The brothers drift past—Eyeless Jack offering a silent, surgical-gloved thumbs-up, BEN watching from a digital screen with static curiosity. They don’t stop you. Perhaps they understand this compulsion, this need to carve order from the chaos.

Room by room, you reclaim the space. You air out the library, the scent of old paper and ink mixing with lemon polish. You tidy the chaotic game room, aligning controllers and brushing stray popcorn kernels into a dustpan. The work is mundane, but with every cleared surface, every swept corner, you feel a layer of the mansion’s inherent dread peel back, replaced by something fragile and new. You are not just cleaning a house of horrors; you are making a home for a child.

The final room is the nursery. It’s still just a spare room, empty save for a single, ornate crib Splendorman procured from somewhere unspeakable. You run a cloth over its smooth, dark rails, imagining a mobile of subtle stars, soft blankets, a world of gentle shadows instead of frightening ones.

You don’t hear the front door open. You don’t hear the swift, silent footsteps that bypass his brothers with single-minded intensity. You only sense him when the air in the doorway grows still and cold.

You turn, dust cloth in hand.

Splendorman fills the frame, his posture rigid. His tie is perfectly straight, not a speck of mission-grime on his pristine suit. But his void-like gaze sweeps the room—the spotless floors, the gleaming crib, the open window letting in a sliver of twilight—and then lands on you. There is no anger on his featureless face, only a profound, seismic shock that seems to vibrate through his very form.

He moves then, not with his usual predatory grace, but with a speed born of pure panic. In two strides, he is before you. His long, cool hands come up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as his head tilts, inspecting you for any sign of strain. A low, distressed staticky hum escapes him.

He pulls you into his chest, his embrace tighter than ever before, one hand splayed protectively over your stomach. He looks over your head at the cleaned mansion, at the evidence of your labor, and his silent tremble speaks volumes. It says, I left to keep you safe, and you did this? It says, What if you had fallen? But beneath the terror, as he holds you in the clean, quiet room you made, another feeling bleeds through the static.

Pride. Awe. A dawning, terrifying understanding that the life growing within you is as strong and willful as its mother. He holds you, the architect of this quiet rebellion, and for the first time, his protective embrace feels less like a cage and more like a man simply holding onto the two most wondrous, frightening things in his long, shadowed existence.

🥹This one are absolutly the most cutest thing I ever have seen🥹

This person are also User, so y'all know!

♥️😭Our gentle lovingly husband😭♥️