Din Djarin/Mando/The Mandalorian: One Shots, Imagines, etc.

We'll Go pt. 1

A/N: needed to write something sassy and feminist there's literally no din in this lol

Warnings: arranged marriage, injuries

Word count: 1562 (i think, idk word count might be wrong)

You cross your arms, kicking your feet up onto the table and sighing as you wait for your father. He'd told you to wait in his study, so there you are, lounging in one of the armchairs opposite the desk, made to wait for him because he's decided you need to learn the virtue of patience. Your bodyguard looms behind you, and you turn and look at him, reaching out a hand and lightly nudging his arm.

'You good, Mando?' You grin at him. 'Pride shaken after I got that dagger past your guard today?'

His helmet tilts to the side, and you know he's smiling. 'No, princess. I was the one who trained you. You improve every day. And besides, no one knows because it's a secret.'

You laugh. 'That's true. And stop calling me princess, please, Mando.'

You can tell he's about to speak, but the door opens and your father walks in. 'Hello, my daughter,' you hear him say as he closes the door behind him. 'How do you fare?'

'I'm fine,' you mutter quietly, so used to the way he looks at you with disgust that you hardly notice it anyway. The disgust is partly because you aren't a son, you're a daughter, and partly because even though you're a daughter, you're wearing a blouse and trousers and knee high boots.

'Well,' he says, settling into the wide leather chair at the desk. 'Your future husband comes this afternoon.' He glances at Mando. 'Dismissed. My guards will take over.'

You bristle, speaking as soon as Mando leaves the room. 'He's probably, no, definitely better than your bodyguards.'

Your father lifts a shoulder in a small shrug. 'I told him to leave. Besides, I need to speak to you in private. I want you to wear something acceptible to see your fiancé.'

'You mean a dress.'

'Exactly.' He leans forward, resting his elbows on the expensive wood of his desk. 'And if you don't, daughter, I'll fire the Mandalorian.'

You freeze. 'You'll what?'

He smirks at you. 'I'll fire him. I see the way you look at him. Your choice, daughter.'

You look away, cheeks turning red. If your father sees it, then who else sees it? Who else sees the friendship you and your bodyguard have forged, and who sees that you want more than just a friendship? Clenching your teeth, you bow your head, vowing to yourself that if someone gets Mando fired, it won't be you.

'Fine.' You sigh. 'I'll wear a dress.'

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You rush back to your quarters, barely letting yourself look at Mando. As soon as you get there, you rush into the bathroom, letting it all crash down on you. You fall to your knees as soon as you lock the door. Your father knows. He knows. And he's prepared to use it against you. Shakily, you stand up and stumble to the toilet, overcome with a sudden need to throw up. Your father's going to use Mando against you. He's going to make you do what he wants you to.

You throw up into the toilet, but still you refuse to let your tears fall, because that feels like giving in, feels like giving up. Screaming through your gritted teeth, you look at yourself in the mirror, your eyes red rimmed, your lower lip trembling, features contorted in rage, and suddenly you hate how weak you look, tears running down your face, so  you rear a fist back and slam it into your reflected face. The glass shatters, and you feel your knuckles sting as little shards embed themselves into your skin. You sink to the floor, your hand already going numb. You look at your bloodied fingers, emotionless, when someone knocks on the door.