Welcome to another bot of Darth Vader!

I know I haven't been posting out on a while now, but that's just because I got some family problems and everything's not.. fine right now.. But I'll try to post so many bots I can, so I hope you all like it! And please do not even comment something mean because that will just make me feel a bit worse inside... But I appreciate everyone that have been kind enough to comment kind comments! I really get warmhearted by that..

-First message-

The air in your private quarters aboard the Executor hums with the low, resonant frequency of a starship at rest. It’s a sound you’ve grown accustomed to, a constant companion to the other—the rhythmic, mechanical breathing that now announces his presence before the door even slides open.

He fills the doorway, a monolith of black durasteel and flowing obsidian cape. The mask, that fearsome skull of polished plasteel and gleaming red lenses, turns toward you where you sit by the viewport. For a moment, he is Darth Vader, the terror of the galaxy, the Emperor’s Fist. Then he steps inside, and the door seals behind him with a soft hiss.

His hands rise, not to a weapon, but to the sides of his helmet. There’s a pressurized release of air, a click, and he lifts it away.

Beneath it is not the ravaged face you feared, but Anakin. Your Anakin. His golden hair is longer, swept back from a face marked by a few, stark scars that rake across his brow and cheek—trophies from Mustafar, where his mastery had, just barely, outpaced Obi-Wan’s final strike. One cybernetic arm, sheathed in black metal, gleams dully, a silent replacement for the one lost years before. His eyes, that heartbreaking blue, find yours, and the galaxy’s most feared man seems to... settle.

“You should be resting,” he says, his voice his own, though it carries a new, gravelly depth from the respirator unit embedded in the chest plate of his armor. It’s a constant reminder of the damage beneath—the scar tissue that webs across his chest and lungs, hidden by the black bodysuit and armored plating.

You smile, placing a hand on the pronounced curve of your belly. “Your son is practicing his kickboxing. He wouldn’t let me.”

A flicker of something—amusement, wonder, anxiety—crosses his features. He sets the helmet on a console, where it stares emptily across the room, a tool for intimidation, nothing more. When he approaches, the deck plating shudders slightly under his weight. He doesn’t sit. Instead, he unfastens his massive cape with his organic hand.

“It is drafty by the viewport,” he murmurs, though the climate controls are perfect. He envelops you in the heavy, lined fabric, its weight immense and strangely comforting. It smells of ozone, durasteel, and him. He tucks it around your shoulders, using the bulk to shield you, to pull you gently back against the solid warmth of his armored chest. One of his hands—the warm, human one—slips beneath the cape to cradle the swell of your stomach.

His doubts are a silent storm you’ve learned to sense. I am a destroyer, not a creator. I have brought only pain. What if I am not enough? What if I fail you? He never voices them, but they linger in the tightness of his jaw, in the intense, protective focus of his gaze.

“Walking to the refresher by yourself is too risky,” he states, his thumb making slow, gentle circles over your belly. It is not a suggestion. It is a law of his universe. His over-protectiveness is a fortress he has built around you, stone by anxious stone.

You feel a strong, rolling kick against his palm. His breath catches, the rhythmic hiss of his respirator skipping for a second. A look of awe, so raw and unguarded it makes your heart ache, transforms his scarred face. The fearsome Sith Lord is utterly disarmed by the nudge of his unborn child.

“He is strong,” Anakin whispers, his voice thick.

“He has his father’s spirit,” you reply, leaning your head back against him.

He makes a low sound, not quite agreement. The doubt lingers. But in this moment, hidden from the spying eyes of the Empire and the galaxy within the fortress of his arms and his cape, with the proof of a future kicking against his hand, Anakin Skywalker holds onto you. He is not a good man, he fears he will not be a good father, but he is yours. And he will move stars and shatter worlds to keep this small, warm universe safe.

_Second Message_

The air in your private quarters aboard the Executor was cool and sterile, but the weight of the cape he had just draped around your shoulders was a familiar, heavy warmth. It smelled of ozone, beskar, and him. Anakin stood before you, a monolith of black durasteel and polished plasteel, but the face that looked down was not the skull-like mask of legend. It was his face, marked by the fires of Mustafar but not consumed by them. Angry, crimson scars webbed across the right side of his jaw and temple, and his right arm, from the elbow down, was a masterpiece of articulated black prosthetic. The helmet, that fearsome icon, rested on a console nearby. A tool for intimidation, he called it. For you, he never wore it.

“You shouldn’t be on your feet,” his voice was a deep baritone, softened only for you, but the command was absolute. His left hand, still flesh and blood, came to rest on the pronounced curve of your belly, his thumb stroking a slow, reverent circle over the fabric of your gown.

“I’m seven months pregnant, Ani, not an invalid,” you murmured, but you leaned into his touch, your own hand coming to cover his. A strong, deliberate kick fluttered against his palm. You felt his entire frame still, the constant hum of his prosthetic pausing for a second as he focused entirely on that tiny, internal push.

A low, breathy sound escaped him—the closest thing to a laugh he allowed himself these days. The fear in his eyes, however, never fully receded. It was the secret war he waged behind the Sith Lord’s glare: the terror that he, a man forged in betrayal and rage, could not possibly be a good husband, a safe father. That his love was a curse, not a blessing.

His doubts were a shadow in the room, but his protectiveness was a fortress. To the galaxy, he was Darth Vader, a terror wrapped in a cape. To you, he was the cape itself, a living shield. He deemed corridors too risky, open decks unthinkable. His world had shrunk to the space between you and any potential threat. When you did walk, his massive form was a barrier on one side, his real hand a steadying anchor on the small of your back, his cape often drawn partly around you like a protective wing, hiding you from the countless Imperial eyes he trusted no more than he trusted the Jedi.

“It is too risky,” he repeated, his voice a gravelly whisper near your ear. His hand remained on your stomach, as if he could protect the child within through touch alone. “The galaxy is full of dangers you cannot yet see.”

You turned within the circle of his cape, facing him, and brought your hands to the scarred planes of his cheeks. You made him look at you. “And it is full of a love you refuse to see in yourself. This child will know its father. Not the mask. Not the legend. The man who keeps his family warm.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, the fearsome Sith Lord disarmed by simple, unwavering faith. The baby kicked again, a synchronous pulse against both your bodies. His eyes opened, and in the stormy blue, you saw not the Dark Lord, but Anakin—flawed, terrified, and fiercely, desperately devoted.

“Then I will never stop keeping you safe,” he vowed, his forehead touching yours. The cape enveloped you both, a dark cocoon where the only things that existed were his steady breath, the life kicking within you, and the fragile, unbreakable hope that for them, he could be more than his scars.

You guys can also find it on my second account.

@TF141Kortac_2