okaydokay for the soulmate requests, how about the one where your soulmate's name appears as a tattoo? maybe with paz? but feel free to write it with any character you want! also thank you for your presence on this hellsite (affectionate). you are so kind and so nice and inspiring and motivational and i am so grateful for you.
Ahhh I love this idea for him so much, it really suits him!! thank you so much for sending something in and really, inspiring me to start writing. It was your writing of Paz that helped get everything started, and i’ll always be grateful for you
warnings: 18+ description of piv sex, oral sex, fingering, rapidly falling in love
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soulmate requests
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When you first met the Mandalorian, you were drawn to him.
It was strange, because truly, he was terrifying - his heavily armoured form filling the meager front of the market shop he was standing in, his night-blue helmet making a dent in the awning above. The whispers told you he was not only a fearsome warrior, but also followed intense tradition shrouded in mystery.
The whispers told you not to go out alone at night, to stay away and avert your eyes respectfully from his visor gaze, to mind yourself out of the path that would surely lead nowhere good. And maybe you should’ve minded them, but he... well, there was a child, caught up in the busy feet and swirling skirts and he would’ve been trampled for certain had he not been scooped to the side. And when the Mandalorian looked up you were watching, wide eyed and grateful for one less tragedy. You met his gaze for a single moment, hungry for the rush you felt flow through you.
Still, you tried to be good, tried to turn and run and leave the electricity with the dust in the market. But he followed you, striking up a conversation at the bar you’d retreated to. Curious at first, then undeniably interested.
You told him about how you spent most of your time making credits for your elders, who in turn spent most of their time grumbling about how you should’ve found your soulmate by now, since you were so nice, and pretty, and and and. He asked you about what you enjoyed, what you would look for, if you were given the chance to be just a little bit less good, asked you, and leaned close, his hand sliding from your knee slowly higher.
Then, just as your mind registered that he was flirting with you, that you weren’t the only one feeling pulsing desire, because he was dragging you into an empty refresher, his big hands running over your skin, muttering something about how it was a shame it was that you had no one to appreciate you.
And you think he also said “Until now, that is,” but you were more focused on how he was pushing up your skirt, and how you were whispering, “Please,” and how his fingers found the seam of your sex.
The Mandalorian could feel how wet you were, feel how thoroughly your resolve to be good had crumbled for him. You could hear his deep breath, the way he swallowed like he had suddenly started salivating more, feel how his hips pressed forward into you as much as his armour allowed.
It was a whirlwind, his forthright rub over your aching clit, the blunt press of his covered fingers over your folds, coming the moment he insisted on it, feeling him cup you reverently as you came down. His inhale when his com made a noise, his exhale as he promised he would come back and find you.
A whirlwind, the budding of your new favorite secret. You knew, as sure as the cooling evening air, that he’d be back.
-
It was clean and simple at first - his codpiece removed, your skirt in gathered folds around your waist, hands gripping where they needed to. Eyes closed.
It didn’t take long to learn that he was both as formidable and as caring as your first impression - he spent time focusing on your comfort and pleasure, gently working you open for him, your heart fluttered dangerously when he removed his gloves to make you come on his fingers before pushing his thick cock through your slick to make fitting him as reasonable as possible.
Still, it was reserved.... barely.
By the third time, he knocked on your doorframe, though your hands began to wander, dipping under the plates of metal, pressing against his skin where it would fit beneath the layers, nails digging in a way that made him groan and lean a little closer.
Once, while your mouth was full of him, and he was thrusting towards your throat, you swore you heard something affectionate - something about his girl - fall from his helmet. When you paused he only coughed and said it was nothing, a muscle in his hand twitching in your hair.
Weeks after this situation-ship had started, the Mandalorian was thrusting into you roughly, filling you to what felt like the very brim, his cock almost unbearably hot. He was leaning over you, wrapping a heavy arm around you, the other bracing you both, and you could barely think of anything but him, him, him. Your guilt at fucking someone random was a thought weakened under the weight of late night laughter and the way he just fit against you, and he must’ve been thinking the same thing, because his hand slid upwards, gently finding it’s place along your jaw.
And he turned your head, both of you deliriously leaning in before realizing he still donned his helmet and you couldn’t kiss.
The Mandalorian came more suddenly than he had before, dropping his grip in favor of snapping his hips into yours, pressing as deep as he could, and your faces moved apart again.
You weren’t sure which of you was more surprised.
-
It was two whole weeks since you’d heard from him.
The Mandalorian had told you about his travels and his trips helping his brothers and even some of his duties with his people. He always stopped just shy of telling you more, telling you about himself, letting the most precious details through, and you didn’t ask, knowing you did the same begrudgingly.
And so you wondered if he was safe, if he had a dangerous mission or an undercover task. You wondered if he was eating well - he had told you your simple cooking was the best he had in ages - you wondered if he was near or far.
You wondered if he found his soulmate.
And then your heart would hurt and you would touch the tattoo high on your ribcage, before finding another task to occupy your mind.
Your coworker teased you about your apparent indifference to finding your soulmate, teased you about rushing home and listening for his knock. Teased you at your rants against the soulmate system, teased you about your daydreams of fitting in the way that mattered, and the way you shook your head in response.
They were right, after all, but as you thought of him, you began to wonder if you knew better.
And when you heard the knock two days later, you were sure.
His grab is rougher than normal - if you didn’t know any better you would think the Mandalorian is feeling desperate. He near growls, crowding you towards your bed, his hands pushing from your side to around your neck.
As always, he asks if it's okay, not directly asking if you're still unattached, but with resigned respect, forcing out the words as though he dreads your response.
As always you answer him by pulling him towards you.
You think he says something about missing you, but as always, he swallows it down, pulling at your sleep clothes, making sure your legs can spread for him.
He tells you something, a grumpy apology about getting caught up with his dikut brother, something about... You can hardly focus on his words, feeling how hard he is, how longingly he almost lays on you trying to get close, trying to touch your, shucking off his gloves, fingers scraping against the cloth of your top until it’s being shed aside and -
“Fuck,” you hear him say and you freeze, dread bubbling in your stomach. It’s not his, your anxiety screams. “Fuck,” the Mandalorian says again, his helmet falling against your stomach, and something in his voice makes you breathe again, lifting yourself to look at him.
“Fuck,” he moves off you, and you sit up higher, chasing his words, watchin him with worry, and then awe. “Mesh’la, it’s you, it’s,” his voice is incomprehensible because he’s shucking of his armour, his clothes, every layer he can before he’s drawn back towards you, “You’re - it’s mine, you’re... you’re mine.”
You’re staring at him like he’s grown a second arm and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“Paz,” you respond weakly.
He takes off his helmet and kisses you.
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You find your name on his breastbone over his heart.
Paz makes vows that night, whispering them into your skin, your name reverent on his tongue.
