A/N: hello everyone! this is a long overdue overhaul of my previous masterlist! i don't quite like how the old one looks, and i have more cool tricks up my sleeve to make things look sleeker 😈
also! new art masterlist here
updated as of: 4/24/2026
► NSFW alphabet
► boba makes you cry headcanons
► boba fett with a short S/O headcanons
► boba adopting a child headcanons + mini drabble
► boba's S/O wants a baby
► boba is reader's first
► i will wait
► knowing what blooms
► SFW alphabet
► NSFW alphabet
► playful maul headcanons
► maul accidentally hurts reader during sex
► maul's S/O sings to him at night
► maul purring headcanons
► reader attempts to dom maul
► reader, maul, and savage opress play chase and eat a special flower...
► angst prompt: "you promised to wait for me. but you left me behind. again."
► angst prompt: "i think we'd be better off alone."
► angst prompt: "please don't let me lose you."
► dirtiest smut i’ve written (maul x pregnant!reader)
► just the longest thing i’ve ever written with maul and reader being force bonded
► maul with pregnant!reader mini-headcanons
► maul finding out that reader’s baby is obi-wan’s
► what if reader already has a baby or is preggo when maul meets them?
► what if reader is infertile, or doesn’t want children headcanons
► “you wanna make a baby?” maul breeding kink headcanons
► very cute and soft and tender maul with pregnant S/O
► maul marks reader
► maul, reader, and doubt
► reader is dead, maul can’t reconcile
► sugar daddy maul
► reader with sith eyes
► more sugar daddy maul
► maul and reader pine for one another
► maul and alien senses
► and with you (may the 4th special)
► being din's S/O and not knowing you're the local heart throb
► din with a force sensitive S/Odin and luke crush on reader
► NSFW alphabet
► angst prompt: “who have you become? i don’t know you anymore.” | you’re somebody else
► holding hands with din
► din and mommy dommy reader
► accidental marriage acquisition
► “i fear you close by, i love you far away” (accidental marriage acquisition part 2)
► NSFW alphabet
► a softer world prompt: #41 “i don’t believe each person has just one true love, but sometimes we don’t have enough time to find another. (that’s the way it crumbles. cookie-wise).”
▶ post-truth
► NSFW alphabet
► the good god is you, all good, all the time, is you
► a softer world prompt #50: “i will always love you, or anyways i will always have loved you now. (and you will be always someone who was beautiful, once).”
► reader, maul, and savage opress play chase and eat a special flower...
► NSFW alphabet
► savage x pregnant!reader mini-headcanons
► savage and you want a baby
► savage with a touch-averse reader
► mini fluff headcanons
► shaak ti/luminara unduli headcanons
► luke skywalker crushes on reader
► honey and milk | shaak ti x reader
► a hundred million sins | OC fanfic
► sleep headcanons with assorted characters
► sea brine, lizard-gulls, and the things that lurk | kit fisto x jedi!reader
► modern AU hellscape roadtrip with the opress brothers
► retaining balance | bobadin
orion's 2021 "unconventional" horror fics ↴
🕷️ motherless child, you will go from this place | darth maul
🕷️ empty house full of faces | boba fett
🕷️ belief in alchemy | the armorer
🚨MY FANFICTION IS 18+ READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION🚨
Summary: Meeting your true mate for the first time is supposed to be one of the happiest moments in your life. But what if your true mate turns out to be an asshole and not into you at all?
Pairing: Ice Hockey Player!Alpha!Paz Vizsla x fem!Omega!Reader
Wordcount: 5.1k | Rating: E (18+ only!)
Warnings: unrequited love (or is it?), a little angst, concept of true mates, asshole!Paz vibes, alcohol consumption
I cannot believe that I finally get to share this story with you! Heated Rivarly had (and still has, tbh) me by the throat this past winter and I spent weeks writing this fic and the matching Boba one as well, convinced that you would get to read it by February at the latest. And then life and all its little hurdles came in between. Anyway, I hope you are all doing well and are in the mood for some alpha!Paz! As always, I would love to hear your thoughts on this - what do you think happens next?
masterlist | crossposted on AO3
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you muttered to your dark-haired friend next to you.
Chants was wearing a white and dark blue Mandalorian Minotaur jersey, the name Djarin emblazed on the back. “I think it is very sweet,” he assured you with a wide grin, “Din loved that chain I have and it’s even sweeter you got it for his friend, too. It’s like a good luck charm. You wouldn’t believe how superstitious these athletes are.”
Oh, you had no trouble believing that. What you still couldn’t believe was that your friend was dating one of them but you bit your tongue. The day Chants had come home, grinning from ear to ear and waving a scrap of paper with a scrawled number on it, you had not expected it to lead you here, five months later. Right into an empty hallway of the ice hockey rink.
It was time to officially meet Din Djarin, the man your friend called his boyfriend. Secretly, you had questioned whether immediately after a home game was the right moment to be introduced to a strange alpha. Then again, you were pretty sure there was never a “right” moment to meet a strange alpha, especially not one who regularly got into brawls on the ice. But Chants was so happy and despite your TK, you wanted to support your friend.
Besides, you had never been to an ice hockey game before and it was a very fun experience. You had to google most of the rules of the game while it was happening and you had lost sight of the puck more than a few times but the crowd around you was full of energy and you loved to see Chants’ proud smile whenever his boyfriend held the goal.
It had almost let you forget your anxiety about meeting some new people.
“You know when we get married, we are going to many more games,” Chants commented just as you were fiddling with the tiny jewellery bags in your hands.
Oh my stars what?
“I found a ring in his pocket,” he laughed at the shock on your face, “And I think he is getting ready to pop the question.”
Before you could say anything else (such as “Are you sure it’s the right decision to get engaged after five months of dating?”) the door to the locker rooms opened and you were hit with a wave of alpha scents so strong, your eyes started to water. It was not like you had never met an alpha before but you had curated your life to include many good and wonderful friends and sometimes a boyfriend. And none of them happened to an arrogant prick of an alpha who disturbed your peaceful bubble with hope of finding your true mate.
One after another, different hockey players filtered out of the room, freshly showered and wearing some very comfortable looking sweats. They acknowledged you and your friend with a nod but none of them stopped to chat with you and none of them seemed to be the ones you were waiting for. You knew what Din looked like from Chants’ many Instagram posts and you had seen the headshot of player #87 (Vizsla) on the ice today. Yet, as time passed, you grew more and more nervous.
This was important to your friend and if things were progressing as Chants expected, you soon would spend much more time with Din and his friends. So you needed to get off to a good start with both these men and make a good first impression. It did not help that you were a nervous wreck and that you were sure your anxiety was already colouring your scent but you were sure you could put on a nice smile and keep your hands from shaking. That had to be enough-
The door opened again and Din Djarin stepped out. The man was just as handsome as Chants had described him, his dark hair wet from a fresh shower and a serene smile on his face as he spotted his boyfriend.
“Hi, babe.”
Chants practically melted next to you and you could not blame him.
A kiss later, Din’s attention shifted to you and you introduced yourself with a steady voice and a strong smile (you would count this was one of your greater achievements this week). “I, uh, Chants mentioned you liked the chain I gifted him for his birthday so I got a similar one for you.”
You handed him the pouch. “That is very kind, thank you,” he said, the gold jewellery falling into his wide palm. The lady from the small jewellery store around the corner had been overjoyed when you had returned to re-buy the gift you had gotten Chants and you could not wait to tell her that the other two recipients had liked her work as well.
“I got one for your friend, too,” you tacked on, “Chants mentioned that it is some kind of good luck thing for you two?”
“Really? That is awesome. Vizsla, you hear that?”
A tall man – taller than anyone you had ever seen – turned around from where he was talking to another group of players and your breath caught in your throat. This man was nothing compared to the little picture they had shown on the video cube.
Player #87, Paz Vizsla, approached you and it was like your body experienced a glitch. Not only was he incredibly tall. He was broad, too. Would he even fit through a normal doorway? How did he hold his entire body on just some thin skates? That should not be possible.
Words got stuck in your throat as your eyes roamed over his frame. He was wearing grey sweatpants that made your cheeks heat and his black t-shirt was not loose enough to hide how it was straining over his shoulders and there was a shadow of stubble on his jaw and his hair was curling at the ends, still wet from his shower and –
The scent of pinewood slammed into you suddenly, your heart stopped for a second. And then another. And another. In fact, your heart stood still for so long, panic began to creep in that you were having a heart attack. Was that what it felt like? Weren’t you too young to experience a cardiac event like this? It would be so embarrassing to die the moment you were introduced to the new people in Chants’ life.
And then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, your heart started beating again and everything had realigned to be focussed on just him.
Your fingers felt numb. Could it be … was this what your parents had always talked about when they told you about their first meeting? True mates were rarer these days but not unheard of and maybe he had felt it, too, this shift and fuck, was this your alpha?
It certainly felt like it.
Paz Vizsla came to stand in front of you, his face betraying nothing while you could not hide your excitement and nervousness. You wondered whether he had felt it, too, this shifting of the universe and whether your scent was just as tantalizing to him as his was to you. This time, there was no stopping the tremor in your hand as you waved at him.
“Hi,” you smiled shyly, “I am, um, I’m Chant’s friend.”
“You’re my,” he frowned, the slight shake of his head brought drops of water to the strands of his hair, one of them landing on his cheek, “You’re an omega.”
You had never heard someone sound so hostile and your smile froze on your face. “Uh, yeah?” you held oud the little pouch, “I got you the same chain as Din. Chants mentioned it is a superstitious thing?”
The chain tumbled into his large and you caught a glimpse of his tattooed hands. Of course, he had tattooed hands. Of course. His frown deepened as he eyed the simple gold chain. “I only wear silver.”
You hated that your heart cracked a bit at his obvious rejection. “Oh, um, okay. It’s just a gift, you don’t have to wear it, of course. It’s just –“
You were very much aware that you were rambling. But you weren’t prepared for the fact that he would simply turn around mid-sentence and leave you without another word. Shame burned through you and you did not know how to deal with someone so … insultingly hot and rude at the same time.
At this point, the best thing would probably have been to turn around as well and join Din and Chants even though they looked like they were in their own little bubble. But apparently you were a glutton for punishment because you watched Paz Vizsla re-join the group of players.
“Who was that?” another player eyed you, obviously interested, “Your stress relief for the night?”
“Nah,” Vizsla growled, “Just another desperate omega trying to get a sniff. Mind your business, Berenson.”
Your fists clenched and you tried to ignore the burning in your eyes and chest. Never before had you felt this humiliated and it had taken Paz Vizsla just three sentences to make you feel like the stupidest person in the whole wide world.
Shifting your focus to your friend, who seemed ready to leave, you walked away from the alpha and spared him no glance and no more thoughts.
Paz Vizsla was a jackass and you would happily live your life without ever having to talk to him again.
*
Alcohol made you do stupid things.
Like that time you had almost booked one-way tickets to the other end of the world because you and Chants thought you could totally make a life for yourself there.
Or like agreeing to a juvenile game of seven minutes in heaven at a house party of some of Chants’ hockey friends and landing in a small, enclosed space with none other than Paz fucking Vizsla.
The latter being slightly more recent than the former. Like currently happening recent.
You had done a good job avoiding the tall alpha until now and you were pretty sure it was because he put just as much effort in it as you did. But the empty bottle Din had spun to the cheers of what felt like everyone in the house had picked the two of you because, clearly, the universe wanted to test you.
Which was how you found yourself pinned to the wall of the empty closet by none other than Paz Vizsla. His hand was at the base of your throat and there was tension thrumming between the two of you that you really could not explain. The loud bass from outside made your ears hurt and the short hem of your dress itched against your thighs.
“Aw, little omega,” the alpha rumbled and you hated how it made your stomach flutter. How had a simple heated exchange led to this already? “Did you miss me?”
“Never,” you bit out through gritted teeth. Your palms were flat against the wall behind you. Because you liked the cold of the wall, not because you wanted to keep yourself from touching him (or ripping the shirt off his body so you could finally find out whether the tattoos on his knuckles had any companions).
“Tell that to your pussy,” he teased you, the tip of his nose running over your cheek “She’s wet as a fountain. I can smell her from here, omega.”
Other, more mature people, might admit that the grin on his face made him look softer, more handsome, than before. You could only think that he looked evil. Positively menacing.
Which didn’t explain why your pussy clenched at his proximity.
“I despised you the moment I saw you,” you hissed up at him, “And I will never ever grow to like you, Paz Vizsla. Of that you can be sure.”
His eyes blazed and you swallowed heavily. If you did not know any better, you would have said there was reluctance in his movements away from you. That his forehead gently touched yours for a moment before he pulled away. That his fingers brushed over your scent gland and down your chest briefly before his touch left you. That his eyes softened when he took in your heaving chest.
It was all just alcohol-induced imagination, though.
“Good,” he rumbled, “Because if you know what’s best for you, omega, you better stay far away from me.”
*
You told yourself that you didn’t listen to him out of spite and not because some pathetic needy part in you craved his proximity like you weren’t the first omega in history to be rejected by their true mate.
It was like you could neither live with or without him. With wasn’t an option, clearly, with how he glared at you every time he spotted you in the ranks. Without wasn’t an option either because if you went a few days without seeing him, something ached in your chest so strong, you went to the doctors the first few times it had happened.
When the realization sunk in that it was heartache, the humiliation had followed soon after and now you were like an addict, getting your fill of Paz Vizsla every few days even though you knew it was wrong and would only make his rejection hurt more in the long run.
Chants had made it his personal mission to merge his and Din’s social circles and that meant that Paz Vizsla saw you way more often than he wanted to. And he let you know that every time (until Din pulled him away at one dinner and had some very strict words with him from the looks of it) until your heartache was accompanied by a pit of anxiety each game you attended. Your best friend had even started carrying your go-to headache medication "just in case”.
You wanted to say you hated Paz. You wanted to hate him for the glares he sent your way or how he teased you about your “boringly safe” desk job more than once. But the truth was you hated how you could not bring yourself to hate him.
You hated how he never made any attempts to talk to you or how he blocked yours but then grumbled at the waiters when they got your order wrong and you were too shy to say anything. You hated how he mocked you when Chants mentioned you hadn’t expected the ice rink to actually be cold but then a dark blue and white scarf was delivered to the seat you usually occupied.
You hated how when Chants walked into the café you met at for brunch with a raised left hand, showing off his engagement ring, your first thought was that you would get to see more the infuriatingly hot alpha. The other women around you (WAGS, you had learned, wives and (girl)friends) started to squeal excitedly and the other guests looked at the giant group hug that refused to let go off each other.
“Congratulations!” you laughed, sitting back down, everyone’s eyes on him.
“It was the most romantic proposal,” Chants gushed, taking a sip from his mimosa, “He took me out to the restaurant we went to for our first date and I thought for sure that would be the spot.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No! He took me to a museum and I thought at this hour? But turns out he booked the whole thing just for us!”
“Paz told me all about it,” Katrina, a beautiful redheaded figure skater, nodded, “Din kept brainstorming the perfect place for a proposal and Paz suggested the museum, it makes for the best pictures, doesn’t it?”
Do not focus on the pretty woman who is dating your alpha. Do not focus on –
“Hey,” a hand on yours snapped you out of your thoughts and blinked at Chants, “You with me?”
“Uh sorry, what was that?”
“He asked you if you want to be his maid of honour, silly,” Katrina laughed.
Forgotten was the heartbreak and the jealousy and the anxiety. It was all replaced by pure joy at the hopeful look on your best friend’s face and the knowledge that you could help him make the most important day in his life a reality.
“Of course,” you said, feeling tears stinging the back of your eyes, swallowing back the lump in your throat, “Of course I want to, Chants. Thank you for asking me.”
Your friend squeezed your hand, his eyes filled with the love that you felt for him. Everyone around you aww’ed and you could hear Katrina order another round of mimosas. “Here’s to our newest member!”
“Thank you, everyone,” Chants looked around, “Din and I are so happy to share this moment with you. We booked the ice rink for our unofficial engagement party next weekend and I hope you can all make it. We got a few food and drink stands, too, so even you can’t skate, there’s something to do.”
“Can you imagine living in Mandalore and not knowing how to skate?” Katrina threw her head back and laughed, “That would be so embarrassing.”
“Yeah,” you cringed, “So embarrassing.”
*
If there was one thing Chants knew how to do, it was how to throw a party. Your friend worked in event planning, after all, so there was no way that is own wedding festivities would be anything short of amazing. Starting with the engagement party.
Titled as a “lowkey get-together”, your friend and his fiancé had rented out the ice rink of the Mandalorian Minotaurs because of course they had. And to top it all off, it had been transformed into a cosy winter wonderland with lights strung across the ceilings and a little stand that offered hot beverages while music played from the speakers.
It was undoubtedly the most romantic event you had ever been to.
When Joe Berenson, one of Din’s teammates, had asked you out on a date for this exact event, you really could not believe your luck. Sure, he was not really your type and you were pretty sure that you were not his. But he was kind and funny and kept you from having to show up alone when a certain player brought a famous figure skater as his date.
Really, at this point, you were just fighting to not humiliate yourself.
Which might also be the reason why you were not on the ice, but instead on the bench, watching all the couples skate round after round, holding hands and laughing at some of the silly music choices. You could see Din twirling Chants and you smiled. Your friend deserved nothing but happiness and you were so happy to finally see him get it.
Ice flew in front of your face and you flinched as the unmistakable figure of Paz Vizsla came to a stop in front of you. He was wearing dark jeans and a green hoodie that complimented his dark hair. It should be illegal, the way his hair was a bit tousled from how fast he was skating. You wanted to do nothing more than to run your fingers through it.
“What’re you doing here?” he grinned, “Sulking cause I didn’t ask you to be my date?”
This question deserved nothing but an eyeroll. “I don’t care about your pretty ice-skating friend,” you denied, “Not everything in life is about you. Why are you even here anyway?”
“Oh, c’mon now. You can’t blame me for wanting to check on the lonely omega sitting all by herself. My date might think me an unempathetic piece of shit otherwise.”
“You are an unempathetic piece of shit.”
His eyes twinkled and you turned your head away. You didn’t want to see him in a good mood, it made your insides feel all funny despite knowing he hated you.
Praying that he might leave you in peace if you told him the truth, you took a deep breath. “I can’t skate.”
“What?”
You swallowed back the shame and focussed your eyes on his skates. You could not look up and face the obvious judgement that awaited you. Paz Vizsla was not a forgiving man and you had just given him another thing to tease you about. And yet, you repeated your confession. “I can’t skate.”
“Does Berenson know?”
“Course he knows,” you huffed, “That’s why he let me sit here in peace.”
Paz just grunted and when you chanced a glance up at him, his face was unreadable. You tried your hardest not to pay too much attention, to read too much into it, to try to decipher what he was thinking now. Because chances were high that he was thinking something unfavourable and you really were not in the mood to face your own failure.
But all he said was, “Okay then.”
And then he skated off.
You did not know why that left a worse feeling in your stomach than before. Clearly, Paz Vizsla had something that made you dizzy and flustered and warm and shiver-y and –
Shaking your head, you took a sip of your hot chocolate and did your best to forget that whole interaction. Din and Chants skated past you, hand in hand, and you smiled at the happy couple.
For a quick moment, you wondered if maybe you should try to make your way onto the ice but the thought disappeared as soon as it had occurred to you. Everyone was having so much fun and you didn’t want to bother them to get you to teach you how to skate.
Besides, so many people were constantly taking breaks and if they did, they came to join you on the bench for a quick chat. So, it wasn’t as if you were really lonely.
A pair of skates landed in front of your feet and you frowned, looking up at the alpha who had clearly thrown them for you. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching you how to skate, what’s it look like?”
“I don’t need to know how to skate.”
“Maybe you don’t need to but you should know. Part of an ice hockey friend group and not knowing how to skate?” Paz shook his head solemnly, “It’s embarrassing.”
Heat filled your cheeks. It was almost exactly what Katrina had said a few days ago but there was no way he could know that. “Okay,” you muttered, “but don’t laugh at me.”
“Never, sweetheart.”
You did not believe him.
Putting the skates on was embarrassing enough, it felt foreign and the strings were worn with use. It got even worse when Paz fucking Vizsla knelt down on one knee, his hands shooing away yours. “Let me,” he asked, his voice way too gentle for how rough he usually was. You watched silently as he tied the knots for you, checking that they would hold up, before tucking them inside the skate. “Gotta have them out of the way,” he explained, “I don’t want you to fall.”
Oddly enough, there was pure honesty in his voice and when you stood up on shaky legs, he did not shy away when you gripped his forearm. No, his hand even cupped your elbow, supporting your journey to the ice. You took a few steps towards the edge but just as you were about to step on it, Paz stopped you.
“Right foot first.”
You tilted your head. Was this really the right technique to get on the ice? Was there a right technique? Your brows furrowed and you pressed your lips together. You knew you were about to embarrass yourself but you didn’t know you could already do things wrong.
Sensing your confusion, Paz’s hand rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, it’s for good luck.”
The knowledge that Paz Vizsla had superstitions made your heart flutter. How could a grown alpha like him become cute, all of a sudden?
Before you could ponder whether your face betrayed the affection you felt for him despite knowing better, you were on the ice. Immediately, your legs wobbled and you gripped the edge of the rink tightly. Some might say you were refusing to move. You would like to think you were refusing to fall. Not falling would be the baseline of success today.
But apparently not in Paz’s book.
“One foot after another. C’mon, omega,” he ran his hand through his dark curls, “What are you so terrified off, hm?”
“I am afraid of falling,” you hissed, “I – I don’t want to hit my head. I have seen enough clips of blood all over the ice, I don’t need that to happen to me today of all days, thank you very much.”
That had him silent again. Maybe this was your ticket to finally getting where you could bear his presence without the rejection burning deep in your belly – disarming honesty. If you were already aware of your flaws, it would be harder for him to make fun of you.
Clearly, that was what he was pondering at the moment. The frown on his face could not mean anything other than annoyance at your sudden ability to deal with him. He had not shaved this morning because his stubble was a bit thicker and you wondered if he ever grew it out long enough for it to be soft.
(For it to leave burns on the inside of your thighs.)
Done with whatever he was thinking about, he stretched his arm out. With his palm facing up, you could see that there was a small scar on the side and you bit back the question where he had gotten it from. You could wait out his stretch routine without trying to find out more about this stoic man.
When he did not move, not even to switch arms, you grew restless. People skated past you and he just kept looking at you. Almost as if he wasn’t stretching at all but holding out his hand. To you.
Before you could question your sanity, you reached out and grabbed it. His fingers entwined with yours instantly and you took a deep breath. You could feel the rough callouses on his palm, how his skin was dry and warm and he held on to you so securely, you almost trusted him not to let you fall.
Almost only because as soon as he started to move (and pull you with him) you gripped his hand with both of yours like your life depended on it.
“I got you, ‘mega,” he murmured, his voice warm “Slow and steady, okay?”
That was easier said than done.
But Paz Vizsla was surprisingly patient as he placed himself in front of you, holding both of your hands as he carefully skated backwards. People eyed you in passing but he did not pay them any mind and so you found yourself doing the same.
If Paz Vizsla acted like nothing out of the ordinary was happening, it probably was because nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Even when he smiled at you encouragingly as you started to mimic the movements the others made around you. Even as his thumb brushed over your scent gland, sending shivers down your spine. Even as you passed Katrina, who looked more offended than anyone, and he did not spare her a single glance.
“I won’t let you fall,” he assured you as you rounded the first corner, his eyes never leaving yours, “Trust me. I will keep you safe.”
I will keep you safe.
Why did that sound like much more than a promise?
“Chants told me you helped with the engagement,” you decided to change the topic and navigate the conversation back to neutral territory, “He was very happy. Thank you.”
“Thanking me for something? Today must be my lucky day.”
You rolled your eyes, an easy smile playing on your lips. By now, you had picked up in speed, though you were still no match to the other guests gliding across the ice with ease. But your amusement at his joke had pulled your focus away from what your feet were doing and before you knew it, you were struggling to keep yourself upright. Your skates were slipping beneath you and your arms flailed in an attempt to catch yourself on the ice.
Strong arms wrapped around your waist like a vice and you came to a standstill right against his chest. Paz Vizsla had pulled you to him, his chest pressed against yours and you could feel the heat of him even through the layers of clothes.
Stars, you hoped he couldn’t feel how fast your heart was beating from shock and from him.
“I got you,” dark eyes jumped all over your face, as if to check you for injuries, “I got you, omega. You’re okay. Breathe for me.”
It was only his instruction that alerted you to the fact that your breath had, in fact, caught in your throat. Your chest expanded as you filled your lungs with air, pressing closer to him, and your nose twitched at his familiar scent.
Being so close to him was dangerous for your heart even if your head knew he couldn’t stand you one bit.
“Good girl,” he rumbled, his hands on your waist tight, “Breathe. You’re okay. You did it, a full lap around the rink and you didn’t fall once.”
His words sunk in with a bit of a delay but when you spotted your abandoned mug of hot chocolate on the bench, you knew he was right. You had done a full round around the rink.
“I did it,” you smiled to yourself and wrapped your arms around him in a hug. Just to thank him, of course, and not because it brought your nose closer to his scent gland. And certainly not because it felt nice to have his arms wrap around you tighter, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
“Hey, alpha,” a smooth voice had you flinch away from him and your cheeks blazed in embarrassment as you spotted his beautiful date for the day, “Can you show me that slapshot thing you did the other game? You promised you’d teach me.”
There was a sexy pout on her face and your embarrassment morphed into something uglier at the pit of your stomach.
“Uh, yeah,” Paz’s voice sounded hoarse and his eyes were still on you, slightly hooded, “Of course.”
She took his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world and your heart cracked a bit again.
“Bye, ‘mega,” he waved at you, looking back even as he was skating away from you.
Summary: Bound by duty, not love, you are arranged to marry the proud warrior Paz Vizsla. But when distance, misunderstanding, and secrets finally collide, you discover the man underneath the beskar.
The forge has always felt like a sacred place.
The air is filled with heat, metal, and the scent of molten promise.
It is where your sister creates life from steel, where she turns ordinary ore into armour that will outlive its wearer.
You’ve watched her do it countless times, her every movement a prayer, her every spark a verse in the song of the Creed.
When she calls for you today her tone is different.
The usual calmness in her voice carries a weight, a decision already made.
You step closer, feeling the warmth of the forge brush your skin.
“You wanted to see me?”
The Armourer lifts her head, the reflection of the fire dancing across her golden helmet. For a long moment, she says nothing. Only the soft hiss of cooling metal fills the air. Then, quietly but firmly, she speaks.
“It is time you took a husband.”
The words strike like a hammer against your chest.
You blink, unsure you’ve heard correctly.
“A husband?”
She nods once.
“You have served the covert faithfully since you were a child. You were not born of Mandalore, but you live by our Creed. You are one of us. It is right that you take a husband, and that he should be one who honours you.”
You can already feel the dread curling beneath your ribs.
“Who did you choose?”
“Paz Vizsla.”
You know him, or at least, you think you do.
You’ve seen him across the forge, his broad frame always looming, his deep voice echoing off the walls during his reports to your sister. You remember him from years ago, a fleeting meeting when you were still learning the way of the Creed, when his helmet had seemed impossibly large, his presence even more so.
He was everything a Mandalorian was meant to be.
Strong. Loyal. Proud.
And yet, you never imagined yourself standing beside him.
You search for words, but none come. The Armourer doesn’t need to see your face to know what you are thinking.
“You will make a fine match,” she continues, her voice even. “He is brave and devoted. You are steadfast and kind. The union will strengthen our people.”
Her logic is clear, unwavering. You have no argument strong enough to bend it.
Still, the words leave your lips before you can stop them.
“I don’t love him.”
The Armourer turns toward you, her movements slow, deliberate.
“Love will come with time,” she says softly. “Duty first, feeling after. This is the way.”
You look away, your throat tight.
There is no point in pleading.
When the Armourer makes a decision, it is not hers alone, it is the will of something larger. The covert, the Creed, Mandalore itself.
“How soon?” you ask, your voice small.
“In two weeks. I will officiate the union myself.”
Two weeks.
You nod, because that is what is expected. But inside, your heart feels like iron dropped into the forge, molten, uncertain, reshaped against your will.
When you leave the forge, the air outside feels colder than usual.
The sky above Mandalore is grey and heavy with dust, and you stand there for a long time, staring at nothing, your mind a blur of metal and silence.
You don’t hate the idea of marriage. You simply hate that it isn’t yours to choose.
And you hate that the man you are to marry is someone who would die for the Creed before he ever truly lived for himself.
That night, you sit alone by the small hearth in your quarters.
You think of the way Paz carries himself, always tall, always certain. You think of how his voice commands a room, how his armour gleams even under the dim light of the forge. You imagine him at your side, silent and distant, his heart hidden behind beskar and duty.
You tell yourself it will be fine.
You tell yourself you will learn to be content.
You tell yourself that love is not necessary.
And yet, as the flames crackle softly before you, you cannot help but wish that someone would choose you, not because the Creed demands it, but because they could not bear not to.
---
The forge is quieter than usual the next day.
The Armourer works with a measured calm, but you can sense the anticipation in the air, like the low hum of a blaster about to fire. You stand beside her, sorting through the small pile of scrap metal you’ve been tasked to clean. Every clang of metal against the table makes your chest ache a little more.
You already know what’s coming.
Today is the day Paz Vizsla will be told.
When his heavy footsteps echo through the corridor, you recognise them instantly. You’ve heard that tread before, steady, weighty, belonging to a man who carries his armour as easily as his pride.
He enters the forge with his usual presence.
The light catches on his beskar, glinting across his shoulders as he lowers his head respectfully toward the Armourer.
“Armourer,” he greets, his voice deep and resonant.
She nods once.
“Paz Vizsla. Thank you for coming.”
He stands tall, silent, waiting for her to speak. You keep your eyes fixed on the metal before you, pretending to focus on your work, though your pulse is racing.
“You have served the covert with honour,” the Armourer begins. “Your strength and loyalty are known to all. It is time you take a wife, one who will stand beside you, guide you, and keep your home.”
You don’t need to look at him to feel the weight of his stillness. He hadn’t expected this.
The Armourer continues, her tone unyielding.
“You will marry my sister. The union will be officiated in two weeks time.”
You finally lift your gaze.
Paz turns his helmet towards you. The visor hides his expression, but his body betrays him. His shoulders tighten, his hands curl slightly at his sides.
For a heartbeat, you think he might speak, that he might refuse. But he only inclines his head in silence.
“It will be an honour,” he says, his voice low, rough with something you can’t quite name.
You swallow hard. You know a lie when you hear one.
The Armourer nods, satisfied.
“Then it is settled. The Creed will bind you both before the next cycle.”
You can barely breathe.
Everything is happening too quickly, each moment slipping through your fingers like sand.
When the Armourer dismisses him, you expect Paz to leave without a word, but he turns to you first.
“You will need to see the living quarters,” he says stiffly. “I’ll make arrangements.”
His politeness feels like a wall, distant and cold.
“Thank you.”
There’s an awkward pause.
The firelight flickers between you, painting gold across the edges of his armour.
You wonder what he’s thinking. Whether he resents you. Whether he blames you for this union as much as you blame him.
When he finally leaves, the forge feels emptier than before.
The Armourer watches him go, then turns to you.
“He is a good man, though his heart has seen much battle. Do not mistake silence for indifference.”
You want to believe her. You really do. But all you saw in Paz Vizsla’s posture was resistance and the silent fury of a man forced into something he did not choose.
Later that evening, you find yourself standing outside his home.
The structure is simple, heavy stone and steel, half-buried in Mandalore’s rough terrain.
It looks cold even from the outside. He greets you briefly, opening the door just wide enough for you to step through.
The inside matches the man, neat, efficient, impersonal. Weapons line the walls, his gear is meticulously arranged.
There’s a table, two chairs, a cot, nothing else. You try to imagine laughter here, warmth, a shared life. But it feels impossible.
Paz removes his gauntlets, setting them on the table.
“You’ll be comfortable enough,” he says.
You turn to him.
“You don’t need to pretend, you know. I can tell you didn’t want this either.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“What I want doesn’t matter. The Creed comes first.”
You take a small breath.
“And what about what you need?”
He hesitates for a long time, then speaks.
“I’ve never had the luxury to think about that.”
The honesty in his voice startles you. Beneath the beskar, you can almost hear the weight of a man who has carried too much for too long.
You don’t speak again that night.
Instead, you unpack your few belongings, setting them carefully by the bed. Paz retreats to the other side of the room, cleaning his rifle in silence.
As the hours move on, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, the world hums with life, but inside, there is only the sound of your own breath and the faint clink of armour.
You think of the word honour and how heavy it feels in your chest.
You think of the man sitting only a few feet away, silent and unmoving, and how he already feels a thousand miles from you.
Mandalore’s nights are quiet now.
Once, the air was filled with the sound of battle, the hum of ships and blasters. Now, all that remains is the whisper of wind moving through the stone corridors and the occasional echo of a forge hammer striking somewhere in the distance.
You wake early, long before Paz stirs. The room is still half in shadow, the air cool and dry. You rise silently, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you move toward the small hearth. It takes time, but you coax a flame to life. It flickers weakly at first, then grows, bathing the cold metal walls in a faint orange glow.
The house feels empty despite his presence. There is no softness here, no trace of warmth or comfort. Every surface gleams with precision, every corner bare. Even the table looks unused. You can’t help thinking that Paz built this place as a fortress, not a home.
You prepare a small meal, something simple, the way your sister taught you.
When Paz emerges from his quarters, fully armoured, the scent of food fills the room.
He stops in the doorway.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
You glance over your shoulder.
“You need to eat.”
He hesitates, then sits across from you. The silence stretches, filled only by the sound of utensils against metal plates. He doesn’t remove his helmet. You don’t expect him to. You’ve grown used to it, though the distance it creates feels larger each time.
When you finish, you gather the dishes. Paz rises, his voice low.
“I’ll be leaving for patrol soon. I’ll be gone most of the day.”
You nod.
“I’ll take care of things here.”
He pauses as if wanting to say something more, but then simply nods and leaves. The door shuts with a heavy click.
You stand there for a while, staring at the spot where he’d been.
There is no anger in him, no cruelty. Only duty. And that somehow hurts more.
Hours pass.
You clean, organise, mend. You move through his home slowly, adding small touches where you can, a folded blanket here, a small plant in a cracked clay pot by the window, a bit of colour in a room that knows none. You hum softly as you work, filling the silence because someone has to.
When night comes, Paz returns. His armour is dusty, the air around him thick with the smell of metal and sweat. He says nothing as he removes his gauntlets and sets his weapons down. You can see the exhaustion in his posture, though he hides it well.
You approach him carefully. “Dinner’s ready.”
He nods and sits.
You serve him, your movements quiet, careful not to disturb his silence. When you finally sit across from him, you risk a glance at his visor.
“You’ve made changes,” he says suddenly, his tone unreadable.
You look around.
“It felt too cold before.”
“Cold isn’t bad,” he murmurs. “Cold keeps things strong.”
You meet his gaze.
“Maybe. But warmth makes things worth keeping.”
He freezes for a moment, as if unsure how to respond. You think he might say something, but instead, he finishes his meal in silence.
Later, when he retreats to his side of the house, you sit by the small hearth again. The firelight dances across the walls, casting long shadows that reach toward the ceiling.
You trace the lines of the flame with your eyes and wonder what it must be like to live entirely behind armour, to see the world through a visor, to never truly touch or be touched.
When you finally go to bed, you can hear him moving in the next room, the quiet rustle of beskar and breath. For a fleeting moment, you imagine him without the armour, imagine the warmth of his skin beside yours, the sound of his voice softened by something other than duty.
The thought lingers long into the night.
The day of your union arrives faster than you expect. Mandalore feels different that morning, quieter, heavier, as though the very air holds its breath. You wake before dawn, nerves twisting inside you, your stomach hollow with uncertainty.
The Armourer waits for you in the forge, her golden helmet gleaming in the soft light. She says little as she helps you prepare, fitting the ceremonial mantle around your shoulders. It is simple, practical, but beautiful in its own way.
The fabric smells faintly of smoke and iron, of home.
“You look ready,” your sister says.
You manage a small smile.
“Do I?”
“You are stronger than you think. Remember that.”
When you step into the gathering space, every Mandalorian present turns to watch. The heat of their silent regard feels like fire against your skin. Paz stands before the forge, tall and unmoving, the very image of composure.
His beskar gleams in the firelight, immaculate, untouchable.
He turns as you approach. You can’t see his eyes, but you feel his gaze, steady and unflinching. For a moment, you wonder if he feels anything at all.
The Armourer raises her head.
“You both stand before the forge, bound by the Creed. Do you swear to uphold it together?”
Paz answers first, his voice a low rumble that echoes off the stone.
“I swear it.”
Your own voice wavers slightly.
“I swear it.”
She nods.
“Then you are one under the Creed. This is the way.”
The words settle over you like armour, heavy, absolute. There is applause, quiet and respectful, and then the celebration begins.
You stay close to Paz, though you might as well be standing alone. He greets others, accepts congratulations with small nods and a few words. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t look at you. It’s as if he’s already retreated behind his visor again.
You find yourself speaking with a few members of the covert, offering polite smiles and short answers.
And then you meet her.
She’s a Mandalorian woman, her armour painted a deep shade of crimson, her voice light and kind.
“You must be his wife,” she says, and though her tone is friendly, something in her eyes flickers with familiarity.
You nod.
“Yes. We were joined today.”
“I’ve known Paz for years,” she says, smiling. “He’s one of the best. Always has been.”
The way she says it cuts deeper than it should.
You glance across the room. Paz is speaking to another warrior, his posture relaxed for once. But when the woman calls his name, he turns immediately.
“Ah,” she says warmly. “There he is.”
Paz approaches, his visor turning toward her.
“You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she replies. “I wanted to see the woman who finally managed to marry you.”
He gives a short laugh, rare, quiet, genuine. It’s the first time you’ve heard him sound so alive.
And something inside you twists.
You excuse yourself before they can notice, retreating to the edge of the hall.
The music is soft, the laughter distant. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that it’s only a conversation. But the image burns in your mind: the easy way he spoke to her, the faint warmth in his voice that he’s never offered you.
When the celebration ends, you walk home beside him in silence. The night air is cool, the stars sharp above the horizon. He doesn’t speak, and neither do you.
Inside, you remove your ceremonial mantle and fold it carefully.
Paz stands near the door, his helmet still on, his voice low.
“You were quiet tonight.”
You force a small smile.
“You didn’t seem to notice.”
“You seemed… uncomfortable.”
You meet his gaze, your heart heavy.
“You seemed happy.”
He doesn’t answer. The silence stretches, heavy and awkward.
Finally, you turn away.
“Goodnight, Paz.”
You don’t wait for a reply.
In the solitude of your room, you sit by the window, staring out at Mandalore’s vast dark plains.
Somewhere out there, you think, are people who choose who they love. Who choose who to stand beside.
You wonder what that must feel like to be wanted not by duty, but by heart.
You tell yourself that what you saw tonight means nothing. But the ache under your ribs says otherwise.
The days after the celebration are quiet. Too quiet.
You wake each morning to the same silence, the same cool light spilling through the small window, the same empty space beside your bed.
Paz leaves before dawn, returning only when the moons have long since risen. He doesn’t tell you where he goes. You don’t ask.
You fall into a rhythm that feels more like survival than life.
You cook, you clean, you mend his cloak when it tears, and you keep the fire going so that when he returns, the house feels a little less like stone. But he never seems to notice. Or perhaps he does, and simply doesn’t know how to say it.
The distance between you grows.
When he’s home, he’s quiet. You try to speak sometimes, small, harmless things. The weather. Supplies. News from the covert.
He responds politely, but never lingers in conversation. Every word feels measured, as if he’s afraid to let too much slip.
It’s in those silences that your mind betrays you.
You picture her, the woman in crimson armour, the warmth in her voice, the ease in her laughter. You think of how Paz had turned to her, how he’d laughed softly, how his entire posture had softened.
You see it every time you close your eyes.
At first, you tell yourself it’s nothing. That it doesn’t matter. But as the days stretch into weeks, the ache grows sharper. You start to notice when he leaves without telling you. When his armour is polished but his voice sounds tired.
When his scent carries the faint trace of something sweet, a spice, a hint of oil that doesn’t belong to you.
One night, after waiting too long by the hearth, you finally speak.
“You’re late again.”
He stops at the door, removing his gauntlets.
“I was needed at the forge.”
You look at him, your voice steady but soft.
“You’ve said that before.”
He doesn’t reply.
“I just… I see the way you are with her.”
That makes him pause. Slowly, he turns to face you, his helmet tilting slightly.
“Her?”
“The woman from our wedding. The one in crimson armour.”
A beat of silence stretches between you.
“You think I’ve been with her?”
Your heart hammers.
“You’re gone for hours. Days, sometimes. You barely look at me, Paz. What am I supposed to think?”
His shoulders stiffen.
“You think I would dishonour my vows?”
You take a small step forward.
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
He exhales sharply, the sound low and weary through his modulator.
“You don’t understand. There’s more to what I do than you see.”
You meet his visor, your throat tight.
“Then tell me. Let me understand.”
But he doesn’t. He only shakes his head.
“Not tonight.”
And then he turns away.
You stand there long after he’s gone to his quarters, the fire crackling weakly beside you. You feel foolish for caring so deeply, for letting this cold marriage carve itself into your heart. You shouldn’t want his attention. You shouldn’t crave his voice. And yet, when he shuts himself away, you feel the loss like a bruise beneath your ribs.
That night, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling.
You remember the way he stood at the forge the day the Armourer told him of your union, so still, so silent, so proud. You wonder if he ever hated you for it.
When morning comes, he’s already gone again. But this time, something inside you changes.
The quiet is no longer bearable.
If he won’t tell you the truth, you’ll find it yourself.
You wake before dawn, the house shrouded in stillness.
The fire in the hearth has long since died, and the air is cool against your skin. You hear him moving quietly, the soft creak of leather, the faint clink of armour. Paz is preparing to leave again.
You lie still, pretending to be asleep as he leaves. The door closes softly behind him, and silence settles once more.
But this time, you don’t wait.
You rise, wrap your cloak around your shoulders, and follow. The air outside bites with chill, and the faint wind stirs the red dust along Mandalore’s path.
He walks with his usual steady pace, his figure broad and solid even in the half-light. You keep your distance, careful not to make a sound.
He doesn’t head toward the upper caverns, where patrols are common, nor toward the market routes.
Instead, he descends, following the old tunnels that lead deeper into the covert. The path narrows, then opens again, and the familiar glow of the forge begins to spill through the darkness.
The Armourer’s forge.
You stop near the entrance, pressing yourself against the cool wall of stone. The rhythmic clang of metal fills the air, slow and deliberate. The Armourer stands at her anvil, her golden helmet gleaming. Paz approaches her and lowers his head respectfully.
“You’ve been coming here often, Paz Vizsla,” your sister says, her voice calm but knowing.
“I needed guidance,” he replies.
You listen, your heart pounding in your chest.
“And what troubles you?”
He exhales.
“Her.”
You freeze.
“My wife,” he says quietly. “She thinks I don’t see her. But I do. I see everything. The way she softens the house, the way she hums when she cooks, the way she tries to smile even when she thinks I’m not looking. I see her.”
“And yet,” the Armourer says, “you keep your distance.”
“Because I don’t know how to be the man she deserves.” His voice cracks faintly under the modulator. “When I was young, I met her once, before the Creed fully claimed me. I thought of her for years after. I didn’t even know if she remembered. And now she’s mine, and I cannot even tell her how long I’ve loved her.”
You bring a hand to your chest, feeling your heart race.
“Then why come to me?” your sister asks.
“Because I don’t want to fail her. I don’t know how to show her what’s inside this armour. I can fight for her. Protect her. But I don’t know how to be gentle.”
The silence that follows is deafening. The weight of his words sinks into you, heavy and tender all at once. All the doubt, all the hurt you’ve carried begins to unravel at the edges.
You don’t notice your sister turning her head until she speaks again, this time, louder.
“You may as well come forward, little one.”
Your heart jumps into your throat. She knows. Of course she knows. She always knows.
Paz turns sharply, his helmet facing the shadows where you stand. You step forward slowly, guilt and disbelief tangled together.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I shouldn’t have followed.”
Paz straightens, his voice careful.
“You were listening.”
You nod.
“I thought you were with her, the woman from the celebration. I thought…” Your voice falters. “I was wrong.”
The Armourer places a hand on your shoulder, the gesture firm but kind. “You both have much to learn about one another. Speak honestly. The forge will keep your secrets.”
And then she leaves, her steps fading until only the hiss of molten metal remains.
For a long moment, neither of you speak. The glow of the forge paints everything gold and red.
Finally, Paz says quietly.
“You thought I betrayed you.”
“I did,” you admit. “You were gone so often. You barely spoke to me. I thought you didn’t want me.”
He takes a slow step closer.
“I wanted you too much. I didn’t know how to show it.”
Your eyes meet his visor.
“You could have just told me.”
“I didn’t think I deserved to.”
You can hear the sincerity in his tone, the vulnerability hidden beneath all the armour and restraint.
You take a breath, the words trembling on your lips.
“Paz… I thought I hated this marriage at first. I thought it was just duty. But when you weren’t home, I missed you. When I thought you loved someone else, it hurt more than it should have.”
He takes another step closer, the light glinting off the curve of his helmet. “You missed me?”
“Every day.”
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the sound of the forge and the space between you.
“I’ll never be perfect,” he says quietly. “But I’ll learn. I’ll learn how to be what you need.”
And for the first time, you believe him.
The forge hums quietly after your sister leaves, its golden glow flickering against the walls. The air feels alive, charged with something unspoken. Paz stands before you, motionless, as though afraid that any step closer might shatter the fragile understanding that has finally formed between you.
You take a slow breath.
“You’ve loved me… since we were children?”
His helmet dips once.
“You were small, wild, and curious. You followed the Armourer everywhere, asking questions no one dared to. I remember you looking up at me once, just once, and smiling. I never forgot that.”
The admission makes your heart ache. All the coldness, the silence, the distance, it wasn’t hate. It was fear.
“I thought you couldn’t stand me,” you whisper.
“I thought if I said how I felt, I’d dishonour you,” he replies quietly. “I’m a man of war. You deserved someone gentle. Someone who could give you peace.”
You shake your head.
“Peace isn’t something I ever had, Paz. But you… you make me feel safe. That’s more than I ever dreamed of.”
He steps closer, the heat from his armour radiating into the space between you.
“You cook for me,” he says softly. “You make my house warm. I come home to the scent of your food, and I can breathe again. I thought it was the Forge that kept me grounded, but it’s you.”
Your throat tightens as you reach up, brushing your fingers against the metal of his gauntlet.
“Then stop hiding from me.”
He hesitates. You can almost hear the conflict in his breath, the storm behind the mask.
“It is not our way to remove the helmet before others.”
“I know,” you say quietly. “But I am not others.”
Silence fills the room.
You can hear the gentle hiss of molten metal cooling behind you, the rhythmic beat of your heart in your ears.
And then, slowly, he raises his hands to his helmet. The sound of the seals releasing fills the air, a deep, metallic sigh.
When the helmet comes off, you finally see him.
His hair is dark, longer than you expected, curling slightly from the heat of the forge. His eyes are blue and deep, filled with uncertainty and longing. His jaw is strong, marked by a faint scar that disappears beneath his beard. But it’s his expression that amazes you, the tenderness in it, the awe.
“You’re beautiful,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
He laughs quietly, shaking his head.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“How else could I?”
He reaches for you then, his hand warm against your cheek, rough from years of battle but gentle as it cradles your face. You lean into his touch, closing your eyes as he breathes you in, slow, reverent, as if memorising the moment.
“I thought I’d lost my chance,” he murmurs. “All those years, I thought you’d never look at me this way.”
“You never gave me the chance,” you say softly, smiling.
His thumb strokes your skin, tracing the line of your jaw.
“Then let me make up for it.”
He leans in, and his lips find yours, soft, warm, trembling. The kiss is hesitant at first, almost questioning, but when you answer with a sigh against his mouth, he deepens it, pulling you closer until your hands are tangled in his hair and his heart beats hard against your chest.
The world falls away. There is only the heat of him, the taste of him, the quiet hum of something sacred and new blooming between you.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“You are my home,” he whispers. “Not Mandalore. Not the Creed. You.”
Tears sting your eyes, but you smile through them.
“Then we’ll build that home together.”
He presses one last kiss to your lips before placing his helmet back on, sealing it with a quiet click.
But this time, when you look at him, you no longer see the coldness of beskar. You see the man underneath it, the one who loves you with every part of his soul.
When you leave the forge hand in hand, the first light of dawn spills across the horizon. The fires of the Forge glow behind you, but ahead lies something brighter, softer.
Yours.
Seasons have gone quietly across Mandalore since that morning in the Forge.
The once cold, lifeless house is now a home that hums softly with warmth and memory. The walls are hung with small tokens you’ve gathered together, the first clay dish you shaped by hand, the piece of his old armour that you polished until it gleamed like silver, the woven rug you made to soften the echo of his boots.
It feels alive now, because it is. Because you are both inside it.
Paz is at the workbench today, repairing a piece of his gauntlet.
“You’re staring again,” he says, voice soft through the helmet.
“You’re worth staring at.” you smile.
He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he sets his tools aside.
“If anyone else said that to me, I’d tell them to watch their tongue.”
“And me?” you ask.
He crosses the room, his armour whispering faintly with each step.
“You don’t need to watch yours.”
When he reaches you, he pulls you gently into his arms. You fit perfectly against his chest, your ear pressed to the solid weight of his armour. The hum of his heartbeat beneath it is your favourite sound, steady, sure, entirely his.
“I spoke to your sister,” he murmurs. “She said the next Foundling ceremony is soon. She asked if we would help.”
You tilt your head to look up at him.
“You mean she asked if I would help.”
He nods, amused.
“She trusts you more than most. Says you have the heart for it.”
A soft smile touches your lips.
“Maybe she’s right.”
He runs a gloved thumb along your jaw.
“She usually is.”
For a moment, neither of you move. Then, slowly, he reaches up and releases the seals of his helmet.
The soft hiss fills the room, and when he lifts it off, that familiar warmth floods through you. His face takes your breath away.
He leans down to kiss you.
The kiss is unhurried, deep, filled with the kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken anymore.
When he pulls back, he keeps his forehead against yours, breathing you in.
“I never thought I could have this,” he says quietly. “A life that feels… peaceful.”
“Even warriors deserve peace.”
“Especially ones who married stubborn women.” He chuckles softly.
You laugh, giving his chest a playful push.
“Stubborn enough to follow you into the Forge.”
“Stubborn enough to love me,” he corrects gently.
You glance toward the small window, where the horizon glows faintly orange and gold. Mandalore’s sun rises slow and heavy, spilling light across the red sands. You’ve come to love that sight, the way it looks like the planet is healing, piece by piece, just as the two of you have.
“I think my sister was right,” you whisper. “We were meant to fit.”
He slides a hand to the back of your neck, brushing his lips against your temple.
“You were meant to stay.”
And you have.
No longer a frightened girl hiding behind duty, no longer a man buried beneath the Creed, just two souls who found each other where fire meets steel.
You press a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath the armour.
“This is the Way,” you murmur.
He smiles, eyes soft and certain.
“Our way.”
Outside, Mandalore breathes in a new dawn, and in your home, love burns, steady as the Forge, eternal as beskar.
Tags: Slowburn, Fluff, Angst, Hidden identity, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Trademarked for the Slowest of Burns™️
Summary:
You hadn't planned on fleeing for your life, jumping planet, and stowing away on a random vessel. Nor had you planned on being employed by a Mandalorian wanted by the empire for kidnapping a random baby, having an imperial bounty on your head, and tagging along on dangerous bounty hunter missions. Least of all, you REALLY hadn't planned on somehow integrating yourself into the tiny clan of two you found yourself in.
The force moves in mysterious ways, you suppose.
Dunecat (Fennec x Fem! Reader)
Read on AO3
Tags: Seduction, Smut, Friends with benefits until you catch feelings, Dom/Sub undertones,
Summary:
Fennec was beautiful like a cold blade, yes, but the way that she looked at you with a barely concealed interest made a part of you grow warm under her gaze. If you dwelled on the coy smile she had offered you for too long then you could feel a shiver trill up your spine. The attention was not entirely unwelcome, and a part of you wondered if Fennec might have more than just a passing interest in you.
The stare she gave you left no questions about the intent there, gaze keen with interest. Yet it was in the way that a hunter summed up their quarry, noting their weaknesses as they stalked in for the kill. For a moment you felt almost like prey.
Or: A job offer at Boba's palace leaves you attracting the attention of a dangerous but seductive huntress
Reverence (Paz Vizsla x Virgin! Reader)
Read on AO3
Tags: Virgin Reader, AU- Arranged Marriage, Mandalorian Clan Dynamics, Smut, Service Top Paz, Virgin Kink
Summary:
You had been warned about the man you were to marry, about Paz Vizsla. Brutal, terrifying, a monster.
Yet on your wedding night you come to discover that none of those things are true, that the man who has wed you is in fact the gentlest of giants.
The Hunted (Darksaber Haunted! Din x Reader)
Read on AO3
You run. You flee from him even as it shatters your heart in half. A part of you thinks that perhaps by doing this Din will come to his senses, will see what he’s become. More than that you run from that thing that turned him into this, the way it spawns shadows that cling to him like a shroud.
Your only mistake is that it’s him. Din is clever, determined, persistent. It’s how he became an infamous bounty hunter. It’s how, no matter where you run, no matter how fast you flee, no matter which star you try to hide behind…
He will find you.
It’s only a matter of time.
"Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll come find you.”
Oneshots:
Gentle (A Cal Kestis x GN Reader Fic)
As my King Demands (Mand’alor Din Djarin x AFAB Reader)
Save a Speeder, Ride a Mando (Din Djarin x GN Reader)
Fandom: The Mandalorian
Pairing: Paz Viszla x Reader
Words: 1877
Warnings: Fluff and Smut, Vaginal Sex, Cock Warming, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Overstimulation
Summary: When Paz asks you to spend some time with him, you don't say No. Never.
If someone had asked you how you thought torture began you would have never even thought to answer that it might start with Paz Vizla coming up to you, saying:
„I need an hour of your time.”
Of course you hadn’t denied him. You could have, he would never hold it against you, but this certainty alone eased most of your worries away and let you tell him that of course, he could have some of your time.
It wasn’t that you regretted it now. Not really.
But it was torture.
You had not protested when he had led you to his quarters, getting all handsy on the way there. Once you had been alone he had asked you to remove your armor, and had done the same. When you had both been in your under-armor garments Paz had taken the time to engulf you in his arms, pressing you to him. Big bear hugs from the huge warrior were always welcome so you had melted into his embrace.
When he had lifted you up into his arms and carried you over to the bed you had just clung to him. Truth to be told, you would let Paz do almost anything to you. Ever since he had gotten over his awful attempts at flirting by just straight-up saying that he wanted to pursue a physical relationship with you, he had done everything in his power to make you forget his blunders. He was big and strong, his hands dexterous and surprisingly gentle; if he willed them to be. And he willed them to be if you wanted it like that. It certainly was nice to have a renowned warrior touch you like he worshipped every inch of your skin.
“Stop squirming, babygirl”, Paz rumbled deep in his throat and held you tighter. You gasped when he bucked his hips a bit.
“Easier said than done”, you mewled and tried undulating your hips. But he just squeezed your ass cheek harder to keep you still, forcing a moan out of you and making your pussy clench around his cock.
“None of that, little one”, he chastised, tapping your helmet with his free hand to make you look up from where your head rested on his chest. You lifted your head and he leaned down to press his forehead against yours. “I know it’s difficult. Just relax for me, will you?”
You nodded, although you knew you couldn’t keep still for long. His hard cock throbbing inside you felt just too delicious. You were addicted to the feeling, since the first time you had been intimate with each other. The way his cock stretched your cunt every time you two had sex as if it was the first time and the slight pain that all too soon gave way to pleasure was something you had learned to relish.
“What are you thinking about, babygirl?” Paz’s voice was quiet and gentle; having you on his cock and splayed over his body had really calmed him down from whatever had had him in a twist earlier. You hummed indecisively. Should you tell him? It might ruin the mood. But… you wanted to be honest with him.
“Our first time”, you said, trying to snuggle even closer. You drew patterns on the skin of his upper arm with your fingertips. “I loved the way it happened.”
“Hmm”, Paz nodded, thrusting his hips upwards lazily. You had to bite back a needy whimper. He felt so good. “Tell me, beautiful”, he demanded. “Tell me what you liked. Maybe I will keep moving if you do”, he added cheekily.
Ah. So he was getting antsy, as well. There was no way he would indulge you if he wasn’t getting restless with the cock-warming, too. Since he never failed to assure you that he adored you, and how willingly you let him enjoy the feeling of your warm, wet cunt around him when he was fucking you brutally into the nearest surface, you knew he was dying to move inside you.
“I liked the sparring beforehand”, you said, remembering the touches and your racing heart, the goosebumps he had caused. Of course there had been no way that you could best the walking tank that was Paz Vizla but trying had been fun. You appreciated that he hadn’t held back even though he was almost twice as big as you. “It made the blood flow faster.”
“That it did”, he agreed and let his left hand wander over your back to join the right one on your ass, squeezing your flesh. “You had me so hard when you pinned me down. I could’ve fucked you right there and then.” He sounded fond, and your heart fluttered at that. It had been barely more than two seconds that you had been able to keep him pinned. It had been a good move, one knee on his throat and the other foot on his crotch, but Paz was nothing if not strong. He had shaken you off like you were a child. That he still thought it had been a good try made you proud. And it made you like him even more.
“I’m glad you decided to fuck me afterwards”, you replied and squeezed his upper arms. Those capable arms that had held you down with your full permission.
“Oh, so am I, babygirl”, Paz chuckled. “So am I!” He ground against you, mushing your clit against his pubic bone. Sparks were traveling throughout your body and you dug your nails into his arms. “Hmm, you like that, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh”, you nodded, not even trying to deny it. That was a nice game that the two of you enjoyed to play from time to time; but not right now. Not with Paz’s thick cock splitting you in half but the smug asshole not moving.
“Tell me what you like about my cock, sweet thing”, he purred. Fishing for compliments. Any other man and you would have rolled your eyes, slapped him in the thick head, and got off him. But Paz did it because he knew it turned you on to tell him exactly how he made you feel. So you answered obediently:
“It’s so thick, Paz! Every time I see it I wonder if it will fit.” You did. It always amazed you, and kind of frightened you. You knew quite well that he could seriously hurt you if he wasn’t careful or too impatient. That risk, and the knowledge that he would never hurt you on purpose, was a huge turn-on. “I love the moment you stretch me open!”
“You are such a good girl”, he praised warmly. “Taking me so well. Never complaining. Always egging me on.”
Guilty as charged. You loved the first stretch when his cock entered your pussy and you relished in the sting, but you absolutely adored the feeling of him filling you to the brim. When he was seated inside you completely you felt so overly full.
“Paz?” You had enjoyed resting lazily with his cock inside but it had gone on long enough in your opinion.
“Yes, babygirl?”
“Will you please fuck me?” You nuzzled his chest as best as you could with your helmet on. He made a low noise in his throat, his hips snapping upward and grinding his cock so deep inside you that you squeaked. “Please, Paz”, you whimpered.
“Hold on tight, love.”
He gripped your hips with beskar-strong hands, keeping you in place, and then started thrusting into you. You threw you head back and moaned, the onslaught making your legs tremble. He pounded into you roughly, your walls clenching around him when he pulled back out only to thrust again even harder.
“Paz!” The vocoder couldn’t hide the whiny touch your voice held. Paz grunted in response, pulling you down by your hips, bottoming out in you with each harsh push. He smashed into your cervix with each hit, just on the good side of painful.
“I can feel you, little one”, he grunted through his thrusts, tilting your hips back a bit. “Come for me, beautiful! Let me feel it!” The slight change in angle had you howling in pleasure, your entire body spasming. “Yes, that’s it! Give it to me, babygirl! Let me have it!” The filthy words uttered in his deep voice were what did it. You couldn’t hold yourself together, anymore.
You screamed wordlessly as waves of pleasure crashed inside your body, flooding your entire system. Paz kept fucking you through it, holding onto you tightly, not letting your twitching form escape.
“That’s it”, he purred, his hand finding your clit. “Good girl. Such a good girl for me.” He swiped his thumb over your clit, keeping a tight hold on you as you trembled. “One more, love”, he demanded, rubbing tight circles over you despite your pitiful whimpers. “You can do it. Give me one more.” It hurt, in all the right ways, and it made your stomach tighten again.
“P-Paz...”
“I know”, he said, voice gentle and fond. “I know. Just come for me again. Then you can rest. One more time, sweet girl.” You knew he would stop the second you told him to. The moment you told him that it really was too much he would stop, slip out of you, and pamper you. That knowledge was what let you endure the overstimulation, and what let you allow him to coax as many climaxes out of you as he wished. “I wanna feel this sweet pussy come around me again.”
There were tears flowing underneath the helmet when you toppled over the edge into a mute orgasm that had all your muscles seizing up. You couldn’t even make a sound as the orgasm pulsed through you, ripping you apart. Only the strong arms of Paz cradling you to him were keeping you upright.
“That’s it, just like that. You’re doing so well!” Paz hoisted you up properly and pressed you against his solid form. It was moments like this when you wished you were part of the less strict clans. In moments like this you wanted to put your ear against Paz’s chest and listen to his heartbeat. The sound might have traveled through the helmet just fine, but you would’ve liked to hear it unfiltered. “Can you take some more, babygirl?”
“Mhmm...” You nodded sleepily, limp in his embrace. Whatever he wanted.
He chuckled at that response.
“I take that as a No”, he teased and the soft doink that came through the helmet filters told you that he had tapped his head against yours in a gentle kiss. You wanted to protest, to tell him that you were alright, but he shushed you before you could even get one word out. “Take a nap, love”, he ordered and then reclined, taking you with him so that you were sprawled out on his chest, his hard cock still buried deep. “We’re completely blowing the one-hour time frame we set ourselves, but I’m alright with that if you are.” You hummed in agreement, already starting to fall asleep. Just before you drifted off you caught him saying: “And once you’re awake again I’ll really go to town on your sweet pussy.”
Paz Vizsla x Reader • prompt masterlist • divider by @saradika-graphics
You hate Mandalorian armor. Sure, you can admit it’s usually helpful. Sexy even. But right now, faced with Paz’s large, unmoving form, all the armor currently does is keep you from being able to tell if he’s breathing.
The explosion had a bigger blast radius than you’d both expected, and the debris had hit his back hard as he lunged to try and cover you.
Kark, you can’t tell if he’s breathing.
You crawl to kneel next to his head. You know you can’t look at his face, so you hurriedly tear a strip of your dust-covered shirt and wrap it around your eyes. Knot secure tight in the back, you slip his helmet off reverently and set it quickly but gently to the side. Your fingers brush his face until you find his mouth and nose and pause for several heartbeats, waiting.
He isn’t breathing.
His armor gets in the way of any attempt of CPR. You can only think of one option in your desperation.
You tilt his head forward slightly to open his airway, coax his jaw open, take a deep breath, and bend down to slot your mouth against his. Your breaths will become his as you force air into his lungs.
He has to start breathing again. You’ll kill him if he doesn’t.
When he gasps under the touch of your lips, you immediately pull away.
His fingers find your chin and guide you back to continue what you’ve started.
Wrote this in one sitting with no intention of fixing any mistakes. We are back babyyyy.
"O-oh fu--Ahhh!" cut off from all words you cry out on your hands and knees body rocking with every thrust. Hands gripping the bedsheets for purchase as SMACK SMACK Paz's thick veined cock pounds into your tight wet heat.
"You like that cyar'ika?" He groans his voice coder catching that ragged breathing. Of course you do and he knows it, teasing you with that statement as sounds of your greedy wet pussy swallowing his cock wasn't loud and clear enough, as if he hadn’t fucked you last night or the night before and the night after that.
Thighs trembling a buring heat coiled tightly in your lower belly, spreading up and up to your neck, you felt the flush of the heat warm your cheeks, you felt like you were burning from the inside out and, oh manda.
You arch your back hips sloppily rutting back onto Paz as he grasped his hold on your hips tighter slamming you back onto him burying his cock as deep as he could go.
"Please, please, harder Paz."
A sharp slap broke through your loud moans in the room, a stinging hot slap to your ass, a hand lifted from your hips sliding up your spine until it grabbed a fistful of your hair, he pushed your face into the bed.
"Kriff your milking me your so tight. Your going to come soon for me aren't you mesh'la."
Lifting a leg up the angle and the thrust of his new leverage tipped you over the edge. It onky took a few more thrusts of his body when,
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" As if you were chanting a prayer your walls tightened impossibly around his cock, fluttering as you came.
Paz chased his own release now that you had slumped forward a bit, he came with a low groan that sounded like a growl as he slammed home one more time flooding your walls white.
Pulling out the dragging fat length of him made you almost want to whip around to demand him fuck you again from the sheer pleasure of it.
A rush of come followed his freed cock out your pussy and dripping down onto the bed.
"Such a mess." He murmured his hands spreading your ass open to view his handy work.
"Mmmm." You hummed lazily letting him take the sight of you in.
Okay sooo I want to start writing for the blog and thats the reason I had this idea:
You have to send to my inbox a KINK you think DIN DJARIN, BOBA FETT or PAZ VIZSLA would have and I will write all of them in a list. Then I will be writing a headcannon for each one ;3
You have to specify clearly for which character(s) want the prompt.
