STAR WARS IMAGINES

din djarin | you have my heart

i suppose i'm just missing heavy in your arms or something...

here's another bodyguard!din x reader for more of those princess vibes i love so much. dedicated to Melonhead15 and SeaSaltShanties ; 2k words.

if you'd like to vibe to some music while you read ... here are my recommendations

/ / /

You, the daughter of a wealthy, widely respected Imperial senator, never asked for any of this. You never asked for the pressure of your father's expectations or the beliefs of the Empire thrust upon you. You'd dabbled in the ideas of the Rebellion yourself, long before the fall of the Empire, and yet this was still your life. Threats to your father were high, especially now. The galaxy was in a period of unrest. The war was over, but the aftershocks of violence endangered all.

It was your father's idea to hire the Mandalorian to be your bodyguard, although it didn't make any sense to. Being the bodyguard for your father made sense, but you? You spent your days in solitude in the mansion you'd always grown up in, painting and reading, writing and gardening. You were aware of just how protected you already were. No one dared enter the walls of your home, and why would they? And if they ever did, then why would they target you?

The answer was simple: they wouldn't. And so you didn't worry. And you learned to enjoy the Mandalorian's company.

At first he was simply a companion that stood at the far end of the room you were in, watching you silently as you painted a landscape of the snow outside of the window, or listened to the sound of your pen scrawling lightly against the paper as you wrote. Over time, you warmed up to his quiet company and invited him over closer to watch.

He loved the landscapes of snow-capped purple mountains and rays of sunshine coming down onto the foaming seawater that you painted. He loved how you curled the end of every 'y' and wrote so fervently, as if your words would slip from you forever if you didn't get them down in that instant. Your afternoons were filled with you reading old books from your father's collection. Some of the stories were dull, but he enjoyed his time nonetheless, seated next to you on a dark green sofa in the library, a stack of books at your feet, your shoulder pressed against his. Watching you walk through the colorful blooms of the florals you so lovingly painted was his favorite landscape in the world, and he wished you could see it as he did so you could paint it for him.

You couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that he fell in love with you or that you fell in love with him. It didn't happen suddenly. It was a gradual decline into growing butterflies and warm feelings that led to him holding your hand in an empty room or hall and brushing your hair off your shoulder so that he could get a good view of your face. It was a gradual but gentle fall that hadn't been spoken out loud just yet.

Your relationship was in secret, with lovesick glances stolen across the room and low whispers in a crowded room. Your father was clueless and thankfully so. He never suspected your attachment to the Mandalorian, and so he didn't think twice to speak of his plans with you in the room next to him.