Summary: You came to the Executor to offer Lord Vader your loyalty — but what was meant to be a professional request to join his Legion turned into something far more dangerous, intimate, and confusing.
Pairing: Darth Vader x scouttrooper!Female!Reader
Word Count: 3,8k
Warnings: NSFW, dub-con, power imbalance, Vader x reader, force play, choking, fingering, manipulation, identity confusion (Padmé), armor stripping, size difference, corruption themes, secrecy
Note: Don't ask me any questions — I just had this idea and decided to write it down.
The descent rattled more than you expected. Your small transport shivered in the grasp of the tractor beam as the Star Destroyer’s enormous hangar swallowed it whole. The ship’s metal belly creaked as magnetic clamps locked onto your landing struts, the hiss of hydraulics filling the cramped cockpit. For a brief moment, silence hovered — only broken by the steady hum of the Executor’s life-support systems beyond your viewport. Then, with a final shudder, your vessel stilled.
You inhaled sharply inside your helmet, your own breath amplified in the visor. The Executor. Darth Vader’s flagship. You had read about it, heard the stories that spread like fire across every outpost — a Star Destroyer stretched to impossible length, bristling with weaponry, a dagger of durasteel cutting through the stars. And now you were here.
The ramp lowered slowly, groaning against the weight of the warship’s atmosphere. The moment your boots hit the polished floor of the hangar, noise swallowed you whole.
Orders barked. Machinery whirred. Boots thundered against durasteel. Fighters being fueled and loaded for patrol screamed in the background. The sheer scale of it made your chest constrict — the hangar bay was cavernous, easily stretching farther than most entire bases you had trained in.
You had only taken three steps when you realized something was wrong.
Stormtroopers.
Dozens of white-armored soldiers converged on your position, boots pounding in perfect synchronization. Their E-11 blasters snapped up as one, each barrel gleaming under the harsh artificial lights.
You froze mid-step, pulse thrumming in your ears. Their formation was flawless, the white helmets creating a wall of anonymity. To them, you weren’t an ally. You weren’t a comrade. You were an intruder.
Your throat worked before your voice did. “I’m here to visit Lord Vader,” you said, the words coming out more clipped, more defiant than you expected.
The air hung tight for a moment, humming with the tension of blasters ready to fire. Then, finally, the sea of armor parted.
A commander stepped forward — black pauldron gleaming, voice sharp beneath his helmet filter. He didn’t lower his weapon, but his stance eased. “Hold your fire,” he snapped to his men. The muzzles dipped by a fraction, but you could still feel their focus burning through you.
The commander studied you. His visor tilted slightly, scanning the mismatched impression of a scout trooper standing alone on the Executor. No wonder they had been ready to kill you on sight. It wasn’t a common occurrence for one of your kind to stand on this warship.
“I received clearance,” you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone steady. “Lord Vader is expecting me. His superiors were notified.”
Another beat of silence. Then, with a short nod, the commander gestured for the stormtroopers to step back. They retreated in perfect formation, blasters clicking to their sides. The circle around you dissolved, but the lingering weight of their suspicion pressed down like a shadow.
“This way,” the commander ordered, turning on his heel.
You followed, your footsteps echoing loudly in the cavernous hangar.
The corridors of the Executor were nothing like the compact, functional outposts you were used to. The hallways stretched wide and long, lined with officers in grey uniforms moving briskly with datapads clutched to their chests. The walls gleamed with polished steel, so smooth they caught the reflection of marching stormtroopers. The air itself seemed heavier here, thick with authority and silence — as though sound dared not linger too long under Vader’s dominion.
Your nerves thrummed with every step. The commander said nothing, only walked with clipped precision, his cape shifting lightly behind him. You counted the turns, the intersections, but quickly lost track. The ship was a labyrinth — designed to confuse anyone who didn’t belong.
Finally, you stopped before massive doors. Cold and black, flanked on each side by two stormtroopers. Their blasters were clutched in their hands, the tips glinting under sterile light. They didn’t move, didn’t even tilt their helmets, but you felt their watchful presence like pressure against your spine.
The commander raised a gloved hand. The doors hissed, mechanisms unlocking with a sound that resonated deep in your chest.
The Meditation Chamber.
You had heard the stories. The place where Darth Vader secluded himself, away from his crew, from even the Emperor’s gaze. A chamber designed to sustain his broken body — and yet also a throne, a sanctum, a place of fear.
The doors parted, and you stepped inside.
The chamber was vast but suffocating, the air humming with hidden machinery. At its center rested the great spherical pod, its shell slowly closing in jagged halves like the teeth of some mechanical beast. You caught the faintest hiss of atmosphere regulation, the low, eerie whir of systems working to keep him alive.
“Lord Vader,” the commander said, voice lowered now in reverence. “Your guest is here.”
He stepped aside. Suddenly you were alone in the center of the room.
Then you heard it.
That sound.
Mechanical, slow, and thunderous. Each inhale rattled through the chamber, vibrating in your chest. Each exhale hissed, long and inevitable, as though the ship itself breathed with him. The sound was louder, sharper, far more real than anything you had imagined. It filled every corner of the chamber.
You trembled despite yourself.
The chamber split open with a hiss, its mechanical arms retracting like claws. And then he stepped out.
The stories had not prepared you.
He was enormous. Broader than any trooper, taller than most men. Black armor gleamed under sterile light, cape flowing like liquid shadow. The iconic mask — that emotionless skull of durasteel — locked onto you, the crimson lenses burning like fire. His presence was overwhelming, as if the room itself bent inward toward him.
He began to walk toward you. Each step was deliberate, the durasteel boots echoing through your chest. The closer he came, the smaller you felt.
Your body obeyed before your thoughts caught up. You dropped to one knee, helmet bowed. “Lord Vader. My name is FX-07,” you said, words rehearsed but trembling under the weight of his breath. “But you can call me Fix. I’m commander of Endor’s troopers. My army is strong and ready to serve your duty. My strategies are precise. I may be young, but my ambition strengthens me. I want to be part of the Five-Oh-First Legion. I want to serve by your side.”
The silence stretched. The only sound was that steady, mechanical breathing.
It clawed at your concentration. You had spoken with generals, admirals, politicians — but nothing compared to this. That sound was relentless, pressing into every nerve until it was all you could hear.
Finally, the voice came.
Deep. Mechanical. Resonant.
“Take off your helmet, soldier Fix.”
The order reverberated through you. Not a suggestion. Not a request. It was a command that allowed no refusal.
Your hands shook as they rose to your helmet. You unclasped the seals with practiced motions, but the weight of the moment slowed you. The hiss of pressurization filled the chamber as you lifted it free. Cool air struck your face for the first time since landing.
Your helmet tucked under your arm, you raised your chin. His mask faced you directly, unblinking, unreadable.
You had the sudden, chilling sense that he could see through you entirely.
The helmet weighed more than it should have. Nestled between your ribs and your arm, it pressed against you like a reminder of the identity you had just stripped away. For the first time since stepping aboard the Executor, you felt exposed. The recycled air of the Meditation Chamber brushed across your face, cool against your flushed skin.
A lock of hair fell loose, clinging damply to your forehead. You gave your head a small shake, fingers twitching with the urge to smooth it back, but restrained yourself. The gesture might have seemed too human in front of him — too vulnerable. Still, the strands shifted, framing your features as your short dark hair settled into place.
The silence grew.
He said nothing. The only sound was his breathing — those mechanical, guttural inhalations followed by the long hiss of release. Each cycle filled the chamber, punctuating the space between heartbeats.
You dared a glance upward, and realized with a lurch in your chest: he was studying you. Not your armor. Not the insignia on your shoulder. You.
The air felt heavier under his attention, as if the Force itself was pressing down on your lungs.
And then, without turning his masked face away from you, he spoke.
“Commander,” he said. The modulated baritone carried finality, like the sound of a sentence being passed. “Leave the room.”
You blinked, throat tight. For a second, you thought the order had been directed at you. But then you remembered the other presence — the officer still standing a respectful distance behind you.
You risked a glance back. The commander stiffened at the dismissal, clearly caught off guard, but he didn’t argue. His boots echoed sharply on the floor as he retreated, posture rigid. The stormtroopers outside the chamber did not move. The heavy doors hissed closed behind him.
And then it was only the two of you.
Your pulse roared in your ears. Alone in Darth Vader’s sanctum, every survival instinct screamed at you to lower your gaze, to keep your distance. But you couldn’t look away.
He moved.
One step. Then another. The sound of his boots hitting durasteel was heavy, deliberate, carrying the inevitability of a predator closing the gap between itself and its prey.
You froze.
There were only a few millimeters between you when he finally stopped. His cape brushed the air around you, a shifting wall of black fabric that made the chamber feel smaller, closer.
You swallowed hard, fighting to keep your breathing steady. Compared to his towering frame, you were small. Insignificant, even. His chestplate filled your field of vision, polished black and alive with blinking red and green lights that pulsed like a second heartbeat.
And then, unexpectedly, he spoke.
“You look… just like her.”
The words coiled around you, quiet but weighted.
Your mind stuttered, confusion prickling at the edges of your composure. You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Before you could form a reply, he moved.
The gleam of durasteel caught your eye as his hand rose — not the flesh-and-blood hand of an ordinary man, but a heavy, jointed prosthetic, the servomotors whirring faintly in the silence.
He touched you.
The coldness of metal pressed against your cheek, startling in its contrast to the heat flooding your skin. His thumb brushed slowly along the curve of your face, leaving a ghostly trail in its wake.
Your breath hitched.
The mechanical digits shifted with unnerving precision, tracing down, finding the faint scar that cut across your lips. The pad of his thumb paused, pressed lightly, as though testing the truth of your skin beneath the scar.
Your green eyes lifted to his mask, locking onto the dark, reflective lenses. You couldn’t see his eyes, but the weight of his stare anchored you, left you incapable of breaking away.
“You look just like her,” he said again. His voice was low, even — but something beneath the modulation felt different this time. Less command. More memory.
The words made little sense, and yet they sank into you with unsettling force.
Your voice, when it came, was small. Fragile against the rhythm of his breathing. “Like who, Lord?”
Silence stretched. His thumb lingered at your scar, brushing once more. Then, at last, he answered.
“Like Padmé.”
The name hit you like a blaster bolt. Padmé Amidala. The former senator. The symbol of grace and rebellion. A figure long dead, whispered about in scattered rumors and Imperial cautionary tales.
You felt your lips part, searching for words, but nothing came. Why would you remind him of her? How could you? The weight of his words left your thoughts spinning.
And then, just as suddenly, he withdrew.
The hand fell away from your face with a mechanical click of servos. He turned, cape sweeping in a dark arc as he strode a few paces away.
You remained frozen where you stood, throat tight. The urge to speak burned in your chest, to ask what he meant, to demand answers. But when you opened your mouth, the words failed you. All that escaped was a faint cough, a desperate clearing of your throat in the suffocating silence.
He stopped, back still turned to you. His helmet tilted slightly, as though acknowledging your sound, but he did not look back.
“Go,” he ordered at last, the deep voice echoing with finality. “Leave.”
The dismissal landed like a physical blow.
Your body responded automatically. You bowed, low and sharp, pressing your helmet against your ribs. Then you turned, boots striking quick and nervous against the floor as you strode toward the doors.
They opened with a hiss, the stormtroopers outside unmoving, their faceless gazes locked forward. You didn’t dare glance back, though the echo of his breathing still clung to your skin, the phantom weight of his touch lingering on your cheek.
The chamber doors closed behind you, sealing you out — or perhaps sealing him in.
But his words followed you.
You look just like her.
The fueling station hissed as you secured the last connection. The faint smell of ionized gas clung to the air, prickling your nose even through the filtered vent of your helmet. You double-checked the lines out of habit, gloved fingers moving with precision over the couplings. Routine steadied you. After the Meditation Chamber… after him… routine was all you had.
But your thoughts refused to quiet.
You had replayed it a dozen times already — the way his voice had cracked that name into existence. Padmé. The way his hand, that heavy prosthetic, had cupped your cheek like you were a fragile secret. It had unsettled you in a way nothing else ever had.
You were a soldier. Discipline had been drilled into you, etched into your bones. You had faced live fire, interrogations, the constant threat of war. But this… this was different. It had shaken you in ways you couldn’t define.
And worse — you didn’t know if you wanted to understand it.
You secured the fuel cap, your armor creaking as you straightened. Your ship sat ready on the edge of the hangar, engines primed, a lifeline back to the safety of space. You told yourself you were ready to leave. That Vader had dismissed you, and with him, any possibility of joining his elite legion.
It didn’t matter. You had done your part. You had tried.
And yet…
The words clung to you, heavier than any order. You look just like her.
You pressed your lips together, shaking your head. No. You couldn’t linger on that. You needed to focus.
The sound of boots on steel interrupted your thoughts.
You turned sharply, every muscle tensed — but it wasn’t a squad of stormtroopers. It was him. The same black-pauldron commander from earlier, his presence rigid and purposeful.
“Commander Fix,” he said, his voice filtered through his helmet. “Lord Vader requests you in his chamber.”
You froze. The weight of the words sank into you slowly, like ice spreading under your armor.
“He…” you started, then cut yourself off. You couldn’t let your voice betray you. “He wants to see me again?”
“Yes.”
That single syllable carried no room for doubt, no chance for refusal.
Your pulse spiked, but you forced your legs to move, stepping away from the ship you had just prepared. “Very well.”
The walk back was shorter this time, though you suspected that was only your perception — nerves speeding every step until the corridors blurred. The commander did not speak, only escorted you with clipped precision, until finally the massive doors loomed again.
This time, he did not follow.
He keyed the entry, and as the doors hissed open, he stepped aside. You caught a brief glimpse of his visor tilting toward you — a flicker of something unreadable. Then the doors sealed, locking you inside the chamber once more.
Alone with him.
The air was heavier this time. Almost suffocating.
You turned — and there he was.
He didn’t wait. Didn’t remain seated in his capsule, cloaked in silence. Instead, he moved the instant the doors sealed.
One step. Two. His cape whispered against the floor, his boots struck like thunder. He closed the distance between you with terrifying inevitability.
The size difference struck harder than before. He towered over you, his armor swallowing your reflection, his mechanical breath amplifying every second into something unbearable.
And then… the hand again.
Cold durasteel brushed your cheek, tracing a line where skin met steel. His thumb swept slowly, methodically, as though memorizing you. Then the hand slid upward, brushing through your short hair, the jointed digits moving strands across your forehead.
Your chest tightened.
The sound of his breathing shifted. Faster now. Shallower. Still mechanical, still monstrous — but different. Distracted.
“You are…” His voice dropped, low and heavy. “Pretty. Just like her.”
Your lips parted. The words pierced deeper than any insult or threat could. The cold edge of his thumb pressed gently against your bottom lip.
Air escaped you in a shuddered breath.
“Lord Vader…” Your voice was thin, trembling with restraint. “I don’t understand.”
The mask tilted down at you, lenses reflecting your face back at you in crimson distortion. And then the hand shifted, sliding down, gripping — hard — at your hip.
The pressure made you gasp, even through the hardened plates of your scout armor. The strength of him was impossible, undeniable.
“Take off your armor,” he said.
The command was stark. Flat. But it reverberated with something dangerous.
Your eyes widened. “What? Lord, this is ridic—”
The protest cut short. His other hand shot up, clamping around your chin. The durasteel grip was merciless, forcing your face upward until your gaze locked helplessly on his mask.
The pressure bit into your skin, not enough to break bone, but enough to make you feel. Enough to remind you what he was — power encased in armor, control made flesh.
You shivered. From pain. From fear. From something you couldn’t name.
And then, slowly, he released.
The choice — if it could be called that — was left in your hands.
You swallowed hard, trembling as your gloved fingers rose to the clasps of your armor. One by one, you unfastened them, the metallic clicks echoing too loudly in the suffocating chamber. Chestplate. Pauldron. Gauntlets. Bit by bit, the armor fell away, clattering to the floor until you stood in nothing but regulation underclothes.
The fabric felt thin. Exposed.
The mask tilted again, scanning you. Then — a flick of his wrist. The chamber doors hissed. You turned just enough to see the green light above them shift to red. Sealed. Locked. No escape.
Your heart pounded.
And then his voice.
“Can I make you feel good?”
The words struck like blaster fire. You stared up at him, stunned.
A scoff burst from your lips before you could stop it. “Lord, I don’t think I understand.”
But you didn’t finish.
The invisible pressure of the Force wrapped around you suddenly, startling and invasive. It gripped — not your throat, not your chest — but lower. A sharp squeeze at your ass made you stumble, air escaping in a startled gasp.
“Lord—” you whispered, shock warring with heat in your chest.
He stepped closer, until his presence was all you could feel. The black mask loomed, the mechanical breath filled your ears. And then the cold weight of his hand — between your thighs.
The chill burned. A gasp broke free, this one raw and uncontrollable.
“You are wet,” he said simply.
His fingers pressed, rubbing against the cotton of your underclothes. The fabric clung damply under the movement, dragging across nerves that hadn’t been touched in years.
“Vader—” your voice cracked, strangled between denial and need.
“Call me Anakin.”
The word cracked through the modulation, sharp and commanding.
Your brow furrowed, confusion cutting through the haze. “Anakin—? Who’s—”
You didn’t finish. The invisible grip of the Force tightened suddenly, cocking your hips forward as though a hand had seized your very bones. A soft, broken gasp escaped you, head tipping back.
“Padmé…” The word rumbled through his vox.
You shook your head, panic flashing. “I’m not Padmé. I’m Fix, I—”
The Force snapped around your throat, silencing you instantly. Not choking — not yet — but a firm collar, cutting off protest.
Your body trembled, caught between terror and something hotter, sharper, as his mechanical fingers rubbed harder against your clit through the soaked cotton.
“Say it,” he ordered.
Your breath rattled against the invisible hold. “Say… wha—”
And then it clicked.
“Anakin,” you whimpered.
The grip around your throat loosened, just enough for breath to escape in broken gasps. His fingers moved faster now, precise, merciless, the cold metal an unbearable contrast against the heat of your core.
The noise tore out of you before you could stop it. A moan, raw and startled, echoing through the chamber.
“God, I think— I think I’m gonna—” Your voice broke, strangled by the pressure in your stomach.
The hand moved faster. Friction building, unbearable. And then—
Release.
It hit you in a rush, trembling through your body, forcing your hips forward against his unyielding hand. You came hard, legs shaking, voice cracking into a desperate cry.
You were trembling when his hand withdrew, leaving the fabric damp, your thighs weak.
And then, just as suddenly, he turned. He strode back to his capsule, cape trailing in perfect arcs. He lowered himself into his seat with mechanical precision, as though nothing had happened.
You stood frozen, chest heaving, half-dressed and shaking.
Your eyes darted to your armor scattered across the floor. Mechanically, you gathered the pieces, fumbling as you forced them back on, layer by layer. Every clasp felt clumsy, every plate heavier than before.
Finally, your helmet under your arm once more, you dared to face him.
His mask gleamed, unreadable. And then his voice, calm again, as though the last minutes had been nothing.
“Welcome to the Five-Oh-First Legion, Pa—” he stopped, corrected, “Fix.”
You swallowed hard. “Thank you, Lord. I won’t let you down. My duty comes first.”
“I am sure you will not.” The mechanical breath filled the space. “Now go.”
You turned, armor clinking, steps quick. The red light above the door blinked back to green with a flick of his hand. The way out opened.
You reached for it — but his voice stopped you cold.
“Wait.”
You froze, helmet clutched against your chest.
“Do not ever mention what has transpired here,” he said. “To anyone.”
Your throat tightened. Slowly, you nodded. “Yes, Lord.”
And then you stepped through the doors, the chamber closing behind you, leaving you alone with the echo of his breathing burned into your skin.
Sometimes I like to believe that there is still a part of Anakim in Vader. And when he saw a solider similar to Padmé, he wanted to feel the way he used to feel once again. 😭
