din djarin, my beloved,,,

“Wrong. Start over.” 

You groan in frustration and duck your head, leaning your forehead against the console. 

“Din, c’mon, can’t we just—“ 

“No,” he grunts out, stopping you in his tracks, his voice crackling through the modulator. “This is important. One of these days, you’ll have to fly the ship without my help,” he reminds, his gloved hand tangling in the hair above your neck, sharply pulling you from your spot against the console. 

The act earns another whine from you as you straighten, determined to obey his orders. 

As you straighten as best you can with the Mandalorian’s dick buried inside of you, anyways.

Din gives your thigh a little smack, the sharp snap of the leather against your skin sending a jolt though you and demanding your full attention. 

Sitting up, you begin again, trying to mimic the usual steps the Mandalorian goes through each time the Razor Crest takes flight. You lean forward, breasts heaving as you pant like a massiff, ignoring the way Din’s cock twitches inside you as you lean over the console, and begin checking the control locks. 

Of course, with the Razor Crest in deep space, far from anyone or anything who might interrupt, all systems are go. But for the sake of this…little game of Din’s, you’re meant to pretend that you’re on the ground, preparing for lift-off. But, gods above, it’s so difficult to pretend that anything else is happening with the Mandalorian slowly fucking up and into you, stretching you out with each measured thrust. 

It doesn’t help that you’re completely naked, having been carefully and methodically stripped by Din as he pulled you into his lap, his helmet nuzzling your neck as he proposed this bantha-brained idea. The cold vacuum of space seeps into the metal walls of the Razor Crest, perking your nipples and causing goosebumps to erupt along your skin. 

A primal sound leaves your lips, swollen with your constant biting and parted with exertion, as you try your damndest to focus on the flight controls in front of you. But if Din is bothered by your frustrated groan, he makes no indication of it. “After checking for control locks, I…I check the—the fuel,” you pant, tapping the circular gauge with your fingertip, the tap tap tap sound giving you something to focus on instead of the slick and, frankly, obscene noises coming from the apex between your thighs as Din continues thrusting in and out of you. “Good,” he praises, rewarding you with a deep thrust, pulling you back until you’re flush against him, the back of your thighs and the plush globes of your ass pressed against the canvas of his flight suit and the cold beskar making up the armor plates covering his strong thighs. “What’s next, cyar’ika?” His voice pulls you from your reverie, bringing you back to the task at hand: learning to fly a fucking starship while a Mandalorian leisurely ruts into your cunt, expecting you to have very little problems focusing in spite of the very distracting circumstances you’re in. Groaning, you move ever so slightly against him, just barely rolling your hips backward, sighing in relief as the tip of his cock hits your sweet spot just right before he’s slapping your thigh again, a silent reminder to focus. “What’s next, cyar’ika?” He repeats, his voice gruff and unforgiving. “If you stop, I stop,” he reminds, the warning in his voice very real. Huffing, you lift from his lap on shaky legs, swallowing a whine of disappointment at the loss of him, and take hold of the yoke, thankful that the steering has been disabled and that the auto-pilot system is currently flying the ship for you.

“Next, I’d prepare to lift off,” you huff, unable to keep the pout from your voice. Typically, Din might chide you for your petulant moue, but he must be feeling merciful today, because all he does is offer a pleased grunt and another languid thrust. “Mhm,” he slowly murmurs, and though you can’t see his face, you’d be willing to put credits on the fact that he’s smirking beneath the beskar, reveling in the way you’re struggling not to squirm on his dick. He knows you well enough to be aware of the fact that you’re close to breaking and outright begging for him. As a matter of fact, he’s surprised you haven’t done so already. Proud, too. When you continue without his prompting you to do so, he hums again, rewarding you with another deep thrust as you point to the different meters and dials, dutifully explaining each one’s function (even if you pant and whine through each explanation). 

“Good girl,” he coos from behind the beskar, his gloved hands gripping your hips, appreciatively eyeing the way your flesh yields beneath his leather gloves. “My clever little cyare, hm?” He’s teasing you now, and you can hear the grin in his voice, and it takes all of your effort to refrain from glaring at him from over your shoulder. 

It seems he knows you all too well, knows that you’re pouting through the Crest’s windshield, staring angrily at the stars beyond the transparisteel, because his gloved hand is gently tangling itself in the hair at the back of your head once again, silently urging you to turn and meet his gaze through the imposing t-shaped visor of his helmet. “Are you pouting?” He coos, voice mocking and teasing and pleased all at once. “Don’t be like that, cyar’ika, you’re doing so well…” 

In an instant, your irritable facade breaks and reveals the desperate state you’re really in, your hips rolling back against him, earning an appreciative groan from the Mandalorian. “Din, please,” you beg, eyes half-lidded and glazed over with want. “I—I need it—need you-” you whine, your hands gripping the edge of the Razor Crest’s console, nails clawing at the metal paneling in an anguished attempt for something to cling to. “I need to feel you, need it f-faster…I’ve been so…so fucking close for so long, Din, please-”

With a smug grunt, the Mandalorian grips your hips and hauls you back against him, all but slamming into you. You’re suddenly pulled away from the console and into his lap, your bare back against his beskar chestplate as he thrusts upward, pounding into your mewling, trembling form. His gloved hands move to your thighs, holding your legs open as he pistons into you, the wet noises forming from your joined bodies echoing throughout the cockpit, mixing with Din’s grunts and your moaning, all melting together to make one pornographic symphony. 

“Take it, cyare.” 

His voice is a rough mutter between harsh pants and deep groans of pleasure. The beskar of his helmet, cold and unforgiving, digs into the warmth of your neck as you lay your head back against his shoulder, as if he’s trying to nuzzle you. His cowl remains tucked beneath the chestplate and swirled around his shoulders, and it’s surprisingly soft and warm, a sharp contrast to the beskar digging into your skin, creating an intoxicating polarity. 

A particularly well-aimed thrust has you crying out, your back arching off of his chestplate, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give you any time to recover before he’s continuing, ramming into you, prodding at that sweet spot over and over and over and over until tears of overstimulation sting your eyes. 

“Din,” you gasp, hands finding and grasping at the inside of his forearms, careful not to grab at his vambraces. “Fuck, I’m close!”

Your whimpered warning spurs him on, and he somehow becomes even more primal, rutting into you like he’ll die without your release. “Kriff—let go for me, cyare,” he grunts, one of his hands moving to your mouth, a leather-covered fingertip pressing into your mouth. “Bite down,” he orders, pulling his hand free from the glove when you do so. His hand, surprisingly soft, hurriedly moves to the apex between your thighs, his middle and ring finger hurriedly rubbing at your clit. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, a far cry from the usual finesse he has with you. But it’s enough to have your cunt clenching around his thick length, earning an involuntary growl from the Mandalorian. 

“I’ve got you, cyare,” he mutters through gritted teeth, face screwed up with pleasure beneath the beskar helmet. “I’ll catch you. Just come undone for me—” As if on command, your body obeys Din’s rasping demand, squeezing around him, rhythmically clenching and relaxing as your orgasm crashes over you in a wave of pleasure. You cry out, your back arching against him, and as your body is wracked with sensation, Din comes undone with a grunt of his own, thrusting up into your cunt one last time, spilling into you with a hoarse cry. 

As you come to, you suddenly become aware of the fact that you’re trembling. Din murmurs soft praises in Mando’a, gently dipping his chin and pressing the forehead of his helmet to the top of your head—the closest thing to a kiss he can give. 

You gladly accept it, turning to press your own forehead to his helmet, your breath fogging up the shiny metal as you pant with exertion, bare chest heaving as you catch your breath. With a soft grunt, Din slips from you with a slick sound. Your shared release drips from your cunt, staining the pilot’s seat as Din gently places you back on the chair. With his bare hand, he brushes your hair from your forehead, and hums appreciatively at the sight of you so spent and satisfied, his cum staining your plush thighs. 

“...You alright?” He murmurs, a fond smile evident in his voice. 

Nodding, you offer a soft ‘uh-huh,’ blinking dazedly up at him, lips plush and parted. 

He returns your nod with a definitive one of his own. “Good. You did well, cyar’ika,” he murmurs, unable to help himself as he bends to give you another Keldabe kiss. “Think you could really pilot the Crest?” He teases, his voice a soft hum of amusement. 

“Sure,” you pant, eyes fluttering closed. You’re still stupefied from the sheer overstimulation, you’re only half-aware of what he’s asking you.

“Good,” he repeats, brushing the hair from your face before straightening. “Then I expect you’ll be able to pilot us out of here while I get our bunk ready for round two.”

The door slams shut, and Din turns to face himself in the mirror of the refresher.  If he would remove the helmet, he would see reddened eyes and the telltale bags which lie beneath them. Between his fifty-year-old foundling’s toddler-like tendencies and the strange dreams he himself has been having, the Mandalorian finds himself exhausted unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.  

His quarters are littered with the various parenting books he’d picked up along his travels. They vary in language and species, giving different advice depending on the region he’d found them in—but there’s one warning each text has in common: “your child will exhaust you.” 

Din hadn’t believed them. Or, he hadn’t believed the parenting guides could have really been speaking to him. After all, he was the best bounty hunter in the parsec in his day! He could find even the most elusive bounties, could overpower the strongest fighters and outsmart the trickiest opponents. Maybe he’d take a few hits along the way, but he always came out on top. He was the mighty Mand’alor who had conquered the Moff and earned the Darksaber. Surely, he could conquer parenthood, too, right? 

Wrong, Din thinks to himself with a sigh, as the baby begins fussing outside the refresher door, having found out his Buir’s hiding spot. So miserably wrong . 

And as if this fussiness wasn’t enough to test Din’s patience, the recurring dreams he’d only occasionally had are starting to really, truly interfere with the fleeting sleep he’s supposed to be getting. Nearly every night, his rest becomes—well—restless with these swirling images of...someone… He isn’t entirely sure who. 

He can see her hair...the color of her skin...he can hear bits and pieces of her melodic voice. He’s had enough dreams to make out the color of her gown, as well as the sheer finery of it. It’s shiny and silky, and he knows it would be smooth to the touch if he were to reach out and brush his hand against the material of it. The embroidery (what little of it he has been able to make out) is skillfully made, with threads that shine like gold itself...

Whoever she is, she’s interfering with Din’s precious sleep. Which (Din would argue), is already a dangerously low amount due to the child’s increased fussing at night.  

He’s never angry at the child for his fussiness; after all, Grogu isn’t like other children. For one thing, he’s a good fifteen years older than Din. For another, he’s the sole light of Din’s life—and Din’s entirely sure he knows it. Even with these recurring dreams he’s been having, he only devotes so little time to them before focusing on his foundling, who seems fussier than usual lately.  

Well. Maybe ‘fussy’ isn’t the right word. The kid’s obviously not upset, rather the opposite; he’s more excitable these days. Like something’s coming, and he knows it.  

With all his might, Din wishes he understood. He knows logically that something big, some sort of change must be coming—for maker's sake, that's just how linear time works, but Grogu is simply too excitable nowadays for Din to believe it has anything to do with the changes he desperately needs.  

After having found Grogu's people, Din tried to focus on his duties as Mand'alor. He really, truly did try.  But he just couldn't bring himself to focus on his newfound responsibilities. Not only had he been tasked with cleaning up a nearly inhabitable planet, but the man had nowhere to start and no one to help him.  No royal advisors, no loyal subjects… Hell, if anything, he had more chances of a mutiny forming than he did of a proper royal court, what with Bo-Katan's crew of lackeys coupled with her thirst for power—the very power Din was currently wielding…

Needless to say, the man’s got a lot on his mind.  

It was a welcome surprise when Skywalker had contacted him, telling the infamous Mand'alor that his child had been behaving in a very similar way since their separation. Din had rushed to Grogu's hidden whereabouts, all but snatching him up and flying into the sunset, their reunion the very image of a happy ending.   

Happy endings don't last forever, he thinks to himself, straightening in the mirror. Because after the Happy Ending comes something new...Maybe the 'something new' could be good-a change for the better, he reasons with himself. And besides, his internal monologue continues as he opens the fresher door and kneels to pick up his green baby. If Grogu can find enough reason to be as excited as he is, maybe it's the very beginnings of something after all. 

~

You pace in your bedroom, rubbing the knuckle of your index finger against your lips, a habit you’ve inherited from your mother. Maker above, your mother...and your father…

You knew something was wrong, knew deep down in your heart that they were uncomfortable once they found out about your soulmate’s...background. But you never thought they would attempt to interfere with fate themselves.  

It’s not like there haven’t been warriors sitting upon your family’s throne before! Your great-great-grandmother assumed the throne wielding a greatsword instead of a royal scepter, and that was before she led an army across the country to defeat an opposing force. 

Granted, none of your warrior ancestors had ever been Mandalorian, but shouldn’t that make it all the more exciting? The fact that your soulmate is the stuff of legends? The fact that he would be the first of his kind to sit upon the throne? Shouldn’t that make him a formidable suitor? A formidable king, even?  

By now, you’re fuming in the way that only young women are capable of. How dare your parents seek to anger the gods? How dare they hold your life hostage in their hands? No, you think to yourself, turning to your expansive wardrobe. Nobody will be changing my fate.  

You throw your plainest cloak on (which, to be wholly honest is still quite opulent), hoping it covers the fact that you are the second oldest daughter of the throne, and begin packing a bag, one that will simply be slung over your shoulder. A sewing kit, a few pouches of gold coins, a journal, and as many Basic-to-X language dictionaries as you can fit.  

You grit your teeth.  

Nobody will be changing my fate. Nobody but myself.  

You swallow the lump in your throat and blink away your tears as you adjust the cloak one last time before stepping onto your windowsill and beginning your descent.  

~

The night is clear, Mando notices as he steps out of the dingy tavern and into the street. He’d wanted to wait until morning, but the kid was so insistent that they go that night. He’d wanted to see the dingy tavern and the streets of the kingdom right then and there. He’d also wanted to stretch his tiny little legs, and who was Din to deny him? 

It’s late. Late enough for him to be one of the only people in the street. The stars are out, he notes as he looks up, Grogu following his gaze.  

“Look,” he murmurs to Grogu, pointing a gloved finger towards the sky. “There’s The Armored Woman ...she was one of the first Mandalorians to ever forge beskar, making her one of the first Mandalorians ever, actually.”  

Grogu coos; his big, brown eyes following Din’s finger as he traces the stars that make up the constellation.  

Tell me! Tell me! Tell me! Grogu thinks, forging a Force connection with his Buir, cooing happily aloud.  

“Sure pal,” Din says out loud. “Do you want to walk or be held?”  

Held. Held close. 

So Din holds him as he slowly makes his way back to his new ship, the Chariot. He walks leisurely; letting himself enjoy the slight weight of Grogu in his arms and the cool night air. He murmurs the story of The Armored Woman to his child, the same way his adoptive buir once had when he was but a boy.  

He spots a young woman draped in a fine cloak, clutching a carrier bag, trying (and failing miserably, might he add) to appear inconspicuous as she hurries down the cobbled streets, long empty by this time of night. 

He notices her before she notices him, but makes the mistake of brushing the young woman off and thinking nothing of it.   

~

The kingdom looks different at night.

You’re not used to this vast emptiness of the streets; you’ve only seen them at their busiest. People tripping over themselves amongst the hustle and bustle of the city just to catch a glimpse of you and your royal family. You wonder if anyone will recognize you, and if they’ll treat you any differently. Surely they’ll be kind at the least, you figure. It is proper etiquette to treat a young lady with courteousness, regardless of circumstances.

You walk somewhat aimlessly, unsure of where to go to find help from someone trustworthy—someone who won’t take advantage of a young, admittedly inexperienced princess. You need to get off this planet.  You don’t know how you’re going to go about it, but you’re going to find someone who will lead you to your fate. 

You stop in your tracks once you see him, thoughts derailing as you openly gape at him. Because, well...It’s him. The Mandalorian. Your soulmate. He’s the striking image of the armor-clad figure in your dreams; he even has the strange green baby in his arms!  

You grin, a wild happiness consuming you and acting on your behalf. You’re running toward him before you even realize it. This is it, after all. The moment you’ve been dreaming of since you were a child.  It’s...it’s…

...a little underwhelming if you’re being totally honest with yourself.   

You’re excited, of course, but it’s nothing like the books and countless personal accounts you’ve read said it would be like. It’s... too exciting. Not calm enough. Something about this is wrong; something feels disingenuous. There’s still doubt in the back of your mind, even as you run full speed ahead towards this Mandalorian, your bag bouncing painfully against your side.

But surely a healthy amount of doubt is, well, healthy, right?  

The Mandalorian surely thinks so, you think dryly as you skid to a halt in front of him. 

He is less than enthused about meeting you. At least, that’s what you’ve gathered from the blaster he has trained on your chest.  

The pitch-black t-visor stares down at you above the sight of the blaster. 

It’s a small thing, the blaster. Much smaller than the frightening images you’ve come to associate with blasters. But truthfully, it could be the size of a thimble and you would still be paralyzed with fear if the sights were set on you, and they currently very much are.  

“Give me one good reason not to shoot you,” he growls.  His voice sends shockwaves of fear (and, is that...something indecent?) through you, and your mouth opens and closes like a fish before you finally find your voice again.  

“Because you’re my soulmate!” you blurt out. “At-at least, I think—thought you were…” 

Soulmate, he thinks, remembering the phenomenon, remembering his brothers and sisters by creed who had found themselves having the fabled soulmate dreams. How his training had always implied the existence of a soulmate—the protection and potential converting of a soulmate, should they not be Mandalorians themselves.  

Slowly, Din’s fellow Mandalorians, the warriors he had grown up with began leaving one by one in pursuit of their soulmates. Some of them returned shortly, others never at all—but those who had returned were always greeted with celebration, for it was a great honor to receive the soulmate identifying dreams for a Mandalorian, as it was every warrior’s duty to pair off and raise more warriors at some point. To force a new clan. 

There had been a time in Din’s life when he would lay in bed at night, hoping it would be the evening he would finally have his first souldream, featuring the characteristics of his fated partner…

But that was many years ago. Now a grown man, Din had no time (nor real desire) to entertain the notions of a soulmate—and even if he had, the adoption of his strange, green child and the role of Mand'alor had taken precedence over any and everything else. Including soulmates.  

“You must have thought wrong,” he grunts, sheathing his blaster, realizing the girl in front of him is less than threatening. “I don’t do the whole ‘soulmate’ thing, kid.”  

He begins walking, and you watch him as he goes, the very beginnings of panic worming around in your belly.  

“M-mandalorians don’t do soulmates?” you echo, your voice sounding uncharacteristically and impossibly small.  

“This one doesn’t,” he replies without looking at you. If he had, he’d see the way your eyes light up, and the way your smile slowly returns to your face. Grogu catches it, his curious gaze trained on you even as his Buir begins walking away. 

“But others do?” You prompt, jogging along to catch up with him. “Other Mandalorians receive soulmate dreams?”  

He sighs, finally looking over at you now that you’ve caught up with him. 

“Yup.” He pops the ‘p’ and you can tell from his voice alone that he is unenthused by the conversation topic.  

But you continue, relentless in your quest, slippered feet stepping against the cobblestone street as you walk alongside him..  

“And you know where other Mandalorians are?” 

His blank t-visor stares back at you, imposing and unforgiving and devoid of anything other than unnerving neutrality. But he doesn’t answer you.   

“If you’re not my soulmate,” you start, the grin growing on your face, “then another Mandalorian must be my soulmate! And you can help me find them!”  

There’s a pregnant pause before he deadpans, “Why would I do that?”

“I can pay you!” You start, excitedly.  “Upon my return to the palace—er—this city, of course,” you continue. “But until then, I can be useful! I’ll pull my weight, I promise.”  

You follow him as he walks, undeterred by his silence.  

“I’ve received the best education the country can offer, and I’m well-versed in many languages other than basic. I can mend and alter clothing and—and even make new clothes for the little one.”  

Mando stops in his tracks, his helmet tilting.  

Now you’ve gotten his attention, he realizes as he looks at the worn, brown cloak the child is wearing.  Yes, Grogu says to him in his...strange, silent way.  New clothes! New friend!   

“...What else could you do for him?”  

The Mandalorian’s cadence slows, as if he’s hesitant to even ask, to allow you to convince him of your usefulness. You, however, seem downright delighted at the chance to sell your skillset to this Mandalorian, the one who, as far as you’re concerned, will certainly lead you to your soulmate. 

“All sorts of things! I can sing to him and tell him stories! I know all about child-rearing, and-”

“Sorry, kid,” Mando interrupts, having made up his mind. “I’m not hiring at the moment.”

But stories! Play! New friend, Buir!

Din wishes that this nonverbal communication went both ways somehow, so he could tell Grogu to cool it, that his responsibility to him is more important than this girl and her quest. Not to mention his responsibility as the Mand'alor and his own quest to find and unite his people. The man simply has too much on his proverbial plate to continue entertaining the idea.  

But then you look up at him with a pout and your impossibly large, earnest eyes, and he feels something selfish stirring in the pit of his stomach. It only makes it worse when you say, “Please, sir. I’d do anything for your help.”  

He sighs and tilts his helmet in the opposite direction, looking at the kid, who is giving him the biggest, most sly grin he has ever given his father.  

Din looks back at you, and you hold your breath. 

“Alright. Fine. Your job is to stay on the ship, watch the kid when I can’t, and to do whatever else I tell you to do.” 

You nod excitedly, hanging onto his every word.  

“In return, I’ll…help you find your soulmate while I search for my people.” 

The Mandalorian’s voice is begrudging, but you’re resolute in your giddiness. 

“Yes, yes, yes, of course, Mando!”  You squeal with all of your excitement, clapping happily. “Thank you so much—you have no idea how much this means— ” 

“Don’t mention it, kid,” he interrupts again, walking off.  

You trail alongside him, positively glowing in your enthusiasm.

~

The Chariot’s...not what you were expecting. It’s dingy, and there are no windows save for the cockpit.  The exterior is rusted and dismal, and the interior is beyond minimalistic. Your new quarters are the size of your refresher at home in the palace, and the new refresher is...cramped, to say the least. And you've got to share it. Something you've never had to do before.    

You do your best not to let your surprise at your new environment show, but the Mandalorian manages to notice.  

“Not what you’re used to, Princess?” 

The nickname makes you jump, and you have to remind yourself that you’ve never actually told him about your…occupation. But you know he has no way of knowing that, and you hastily say, “No, no, it’s fine.  More than fine, actually!”  

You smile brightly at him.  

“It’s perfect.”  

And it is, you think as you flop onto your new bed.  

You awake with a start, eyes wide and heart racing.  Despite the restless nights you’d been having, you felt more energized than ever. Not even waking up on Life Day morning could compare to the excitement you were feeling. Of course, Life Day comes and goes, but realizing you have a soulmate happens only once or twice in a lifetime.  

You’ve been keeping track of your dreams for weeks now, even going so far as to write them down in the middle of the night. Two images keep occurring and reoccurring night after night: an emotionless helmet and the skull of a...mythical creature. After hiding yourself away in the castle’s extensive library, you had come to realize that these were symbols associated with that of Mandalore. A Mandalorian’s helm and the legendary mythosaur skull had been plaguing your dreams for weeks, and you knew exactly what it meant. Your soulmate was undoubtedly a Mandalorian.

You’re writing about your latest dream when your sisters rush in, each of them giggling with excitement; ever since your oldest sister, Sommer, left to find her soulmate, you had become their new hero. 

“Good morning, sissy,” shouts the youngest, Myla, who totes a childhood blankie. It’s baby blue, made entirely of pure silk, and the edges are embroidered with threads which shine like gold. 

“Did you have any new dreams?” Asks Mara, the oldest and unspoken leader of the bunch of young girls. 

“Well…”

You draw out the syllable, reveling in the way your sisters gaze up at you in excitement.  

“There is one new dream I’ve been having…” you trail off, lifting Myla and sitting her on your lap. “I’m off on an adventure with a helmeted man—at least, I think they’re a man—and we’re protecting the strangest looking baby I have ever seen!” 

Admela, the middle of the bunch, leans forward, her eyes as wide as saucers. “What does he look like?” 

You straighten your back to sit up straight. “Well, he’s green and very, very wrinkly, but I’m sure he’s just a child, because he never-“ but Mara interrupts you.  

“No, no, not the baby!" The girl huffs, as if this should be obvious to you. "The man! What does the man look like?”

Beside her, Admela nods enthusiastically in agreement.  

“Is he very handsome? Are his eyes as blue as the sky? I hope my soulmate has blue eyes,” Mara trails off with a swoon. 

“See, that’s the thing, ladies!”  You sigh wistfully, a hint of doubt lacing your words. “I’m not sure what he looks like, because he never takes his helmet off! I don’t even know the color of his skin because he’s covered head to toe in this...silver, shiny armor. He wears a helm, a chest plate, gauntlets—even leather gloves," you explain, careful to keep your voice neutral. "In my dreams, I never see him without it.”  

From her seat in your lap, Myla blows a raspberry, earning giggles from the rest of you. “So you don’t even know what your soulmate looks like?” Asks Mara incredulously. 

You shake your head, “No, I don’t. But I think there’s something fantastic about that,” you say, quietly—as if you’re revealing a secret. “I know that we’ll love each other regardless of appearances.  Isn’t that just a wonderful thought?” It’s your turn to swoon, inciting an eruption of bashful and excited giggles from the gaggle of girls.  

Once the laughter fade, Admela looks up, her soft features twisted in puzzlement.

“But…if you don’t know what he looks like, how will you know when you meet your soulmate?  What if the man in armor isn’t who you think he is?”  You shrug, the wistful smile never leaving your face.  “I’m not sure, I suppose.  But that’s the beauty of it all, girls! And once I find him, I promise I’ll make my way home to tell you all about it,” you assured, giving each of them a kiss on the forehead.  

“And when, exactly, were you planning on leaving?” your father, King Kasimir, teases you as he enters your bedroom, your mother, Queen Oda, not far behind him.  

The young girls giggle as they rush towards the king, who kneels and opens his arms to them. “You know your sister is still away finding her own soulmate, my darling,” the queen says, running a hand through your hair sympathetically. “As tradition states, until she returns home, you are unable to leave on your own journey.”  She smiles somberly at you, her eyes not unkind.  

You nod, eyes falling back down to the journal in front of you. “I know, Mother. It’s just,” your hands begin flipping through your journal until you stop at an illustration of yours.

“It’s just...it’s time. I'm not a little girl any more. If I'm old enough to assume the throne, I'm old enough to begin my quest. Besides, Sommer was only eighteen when she began her journey. I'm nearing my twenty-second year," you laugh, hoping to bring some levity to the grave look on your mother and father's faces. But to little avail. In fact, they make no indication that they've heard you as they focus their gazes on the sketches in your journal.

Your mother’s eyes widen, and her head turns to meet your father’s gaze. She murmurs his name, beckoning him with the single utterance so he can also gaze down at the well-drawn skull of none other than the great mythosaur. You watch as she clings to his arm, whispering to him. He nods absently and begins turning the pages of your journal until he finds another illustration. This time, a familiar t-visored helmet stares up at you and your parents. 

It becomes increasingly difficult to broach the subject of your soulmate. Any mention of him leads to a subtle (albeit abrupt) change in conversation topic. Any mention of beginning your journey is immediately shut down. Soon enough, you begin overhearing your mother sternly instructing your sisters not to ask you about your soulmate any longer.  

You’re able to stomach this suppression knowing that once your older sister returns from her journey with her soulmate in tow, you will finally be granted permission to begin your own journey. Away from your parents and their thinly veiled disapproval, away from the prying eyes of your younger sisters, and away from your responsibilities as a princess—which your parents have recently been emphasizing.  

The queen piles on the lessons, choosing to focus on matters of diplomacy and politics, rather than languages or artistic sensibilities.

Your father frequently asks you to accompany him on walks through the palace, focusing more and more on the throne room as he reminds you of your importance as the second oldest princess.  

“You are an example to your younger sisters and to the people of this kingdom. It is time to focus less on...this soulmate of yours, and more on your obligation to the people of your kingdom.”  

You frown up at him, eyes narrowing as you find yourself reaching your limit.  

“You never gave Sommer a talk like this.” You cross your arms, chin jutting upwards in defiance, “If I remember correctly, your lecture was quite the opposite. You told her to take as long as she needed to find her soulmate.” 

The king sighs, face softening sympathetically as he makes his way to you, laying a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Sommer’s circumstances were different. She wasn’t...“ Your father sighs again as he trails off, averting his eyes. “She wasn’t leaving to seek out a Mandalorian.”

It’s the first time anyone has said it out loud, the fact that your soulmate is more than likely a Mandalorian, and the boldness of your father’s admittance knocks the breath out of you and brings tears to your eyes.

“And what’s so wrong with a Mandalorian?” You ask, your voice quivering with anger and hurt. “You’re asking me to—to abandon my soulmate before I even have the chance to meet him! To desert the threads of fate and—no, not even desert the threads of fate, to sever them! Are you so prejudiced?" you spit, indignantly wiping at your eyes. 

You watch in real time as the surprise morphs your father's features, surprise and disappointment lacing his face.

“They’re not merely prejudices, Princess, and I know you're smart enough to realize that. It’s no secret that Mandalorians come from a long line of warriors. Do you think I want to see one of my daughters tortured and mangled by the person fate has tied her to?”

He steps forward to cup your cheek with one of his hands. The gesture, as tender and kind as it is, typically brings you great comfort. But now, it feels like some kind of betrayal. 

“You’re treating him like some sort of monster,” you sniffle, the dam finally breaking and allowing your tears to spill down your cheeks. “And you don’t even know him!”

Your father’s eyes harden and his lips press together in a tight, thin line. “Neither do you. And you won’t. Not if your mother and I have anything to say about it.”   

You rip yourself out of his hold, mouth opening in a horrified gasp. You can see the sympathy—the sheer empathy he feels for you—within his eyes, hidden beneath the hardened gaze he’s giving you. But it is the king who stares you down in this moment—not your father.  

“Your mother and I have chosen someone else. Someone who will be a better match for you than some lawless mercenary.”  

You hide your face in your hands, muffling your sobs as your father continues.  

“Someone good enough for you and for our kingdom. You must think about the needs of the kingdom in times such as these,” he lectures. 

You feel his hand, gentle upon your shoulder, and you give him one last distraught look before you turn and run from him.  

Back to main masterlist!

Word Count: ~ 4,600

Warnings/Notes: Written before season 3, kind of AU because of all of the fairy tale elements, reader uses she/her pronouns and is often referred to as a woman/princess/young woman/etc..

Chapter 1

Chapter 2