I'm Not Just A Bitch, I'm A Bitch With A Backstory

Stardew Valley Bachelors as Goobers (Idea from Insta)

one of my greatest pet peeves in fiction, and it is truly stupid I know, is that no one seems to understand how genuinely hard it is to kill someone via stabbing. stab wounds have a mortality rate of like 5%. especially abdominal stabbing. tv shows and movies show dudes getting stabbed one time in the lower abdomen with a tiny knife and then they fall over. like what did he die of precisely. that man died of Small Knife

A Harmless Drink

Summary: After an exhausting day, Commander Fox decides to pay you a visit with a bottle of wine he isn't supposed to have

Pairing: Commander Fox x Senate!Reader

Word Count: 5.2k

Tags: Mutual Pining, Alcohol, Friends to (eventual) Lovers

! link to ao3 !

’Panic’ isn’t a word in Commander Fox’s vocabulary.

And even now, as he rushes through the wide corridors of the Senate Building, swiftly dodging oncoming senators and wandering droids, he isn’t in a state of panic. If anything, Commander Fox is just annoyed. As per usual.

Fox knows he’s getting weird looks from people, a few senators even gasping as they stumble out of his way. The Senate has had its fair share of security breaches, all of which the Commander and the rest of the Coruscant Guard have handled with the utmost efficiency.

It’s not a strange occurrence to see one of the Guards running through the halls, presumably going to deal with some emergency… but Fox guesses this is the first time they’ve seen a member of the Coruscant Guard running through the halls not with a blaster in hand, but with a rather large bottle of the Chancellor’s most expensive wine.

Fox is sure he hears another clone laugh at him as he skids around a corner and rushes down another hallway. Muttering a few curses underneath his helmet, Fox ignores all the different reactions his hurried appearance has caused. Right now, he has more pressing matters to worry about, well, one matter actually.

Despite many scheduled meetings and appearances, Chancellor Palpatine opted to spend his afternoon catching up with some old friends from the Chommell Sector, who decided to spontaneously drop by. Fox can’t recall every time he either clenched his jaw in annoyance or rolled his eyes during the guest’s time with the Chancellor.

‘Who are these people?’ He thought to himself, knowing that both he and the Chancellor had much better things to do than entertain guests ‘You can’t just stroll in and decide to chat to the Chancellor for a few hours’.

Well, as it turns out, you can. Or at least these people can.

After hours of reminiscing on old times, they finally left. But just when Fox thought the disruption was over, Palpatine sighed, taking out the bottle of wine and loudly proclaiming he meant to give it to his departing friends but completely forgot.

With the Commander’s luck, he was then picked by the Chancellor to quickly catch up with the group and give them the present before they boarded their ship.

This would have been an easy task to complete if the guests had just left but a lengthy ten minutes had already passed by the time Palpatine realised he still had the wine and sent Fox on his mission. The second the Commander was given the bottle of wine and left the Chancellor’s Suite, he began his sprint, knowing it takes approx. 12 minutes to get from the Suite to the closest landing pad.

Hearing some loud farewells from around the corner, Fox presumes he’s made it just in time, breathing a sigh of relief. Dashing out to the landing pad, he abruptly comes to a stop.

A confused group of Vurk politicians suddenly halt their goodbyes and turn to face the Commander, confused looks spreading across their faces. One of the older Vurk’s peers down at the bottle in Fox’s hand. “Oooo is that for us, Commander?” He asks, fingers twitching with anticipation.

“Kriff” Fox mumbles to himself, shoulders deflating as he realises he’s completely missed the Chancellor’s guests and that they’re probably exiting the atmosphere by now.

“Hmm?” Another one of the Vurks asks, not quite catching Fox’s response.

With his grip tightening on the bottle, Fox huffs, turns on his feet and leaves. He’s in no mood to deal with politicians right now, the thoughts of returning the bottle to a disappointed Chancellor deepening his annoyance.

If he didn’t look like a fool running through the corridors of the Senate Building beforehand, he sure feels like one now. Trying to look as if he’s walking with purpose, Fox holds the bottle tightly beneath his arm with no real plan of what to do now.

Judging by the orange hues of the sunset glaring through the windows, Fox only has another ten minutes on shift. After that, he’s supposed to have seven hours to eat, sleep, shower and do any additional paperwork before the beginning of his next shift. Though being the Commander of the Coruscant Guard means Fox rarely gets those full seven hours without some kind of call to duty.

Slowing his pace, Fox starts to think of a plan. If he takes a slight detour then he may not make it back to the Chancellor’s Suite in time.

Of course Fox is aware this doesn't fix his slight problem, only prolonging the inevitable sigh of disappointment the Chancellor will give him. If Palpatine isn’t informed that the bottle of wine didn’t reach his guests today then he will be tomorrow… but on this occasion, Fox prefers it to be tomorrow.

Turning down one of the smaller side corridors, Commander Fox heads in the opposite direction of the Chancellor’s Suite. His steps become quick and confident. Fox knows exactly where his detour will take him.

***

Why are you still here? That’s the one question your mind keeps going back to. The last Senate meeting was over two hours ago and even that, you didn’t need to attend in person. You did simply because you had nothing better to do.

Your days have recently become boring and you hoped that attending the Senate meeting in person might liven things up. Unfortunately, it didn’t. In fact, the most exciting thing you’ve witnessed all day was Senator Binks walking into a door… which admittedly happens more often than not.

Leaning back on your chair, your eyes leave the paperwork scattered on your desk and glance around your office. You’ve been appointed senator of your homeplanet for just over a year now and yet your office still looks foreign to you, as if this is your first time entering.

The dull grey walls blend in with the ashened floor, making the office look more like a prison cell. In fact, the only object that actually distinguishes your office from the empty office spaces a few corridors away is the couch the previous senator had brought in.

He was old and apparently had back problems and so he spent most of his day lounging around on the oddly shaped couch. You, on the other hand, rarely sit on it and instead prefer to stay hunkered down by your desk.

And yet despite how dreary the room is, here you still are, spending your evening skimming through policies and motions other senators hope to put forward.

What a life.

You’re about to go through another pending motion when there’s a sharp knock at the door. You immediately sit up straight, eyebrows raised at the sudden noise.

“Yes? Come in” you call out, your fingers drumming on your desk.

The durasteel door slides open and familiar maroon armour enters the room. It’s an automatic response when you rise to your feet, an act of respect to a man with such high authority. “Commander,” you greet “is everything alright?”.

Fox stops just short of your desk. His hand twitches for a moment and he has to stop himself from saying “At ease, soldier”. Usually they’re the only people to ever show him this level of respect, with many senators seeing him as an armoured assistant most of the time.

But not you, you’ve always given Fox the respect he deserves.

Maybe that’s why he constantly feels a pull towards you, always wondering where you are in the building and what you’re doing. Respect, and of course, he has to think about you for security purposes too. But that’s it, or at least Fox has convinced himself those are the only two reasons why you constantly invade his brain.

He clears his throat “Yes, everything is fine, I just… I uh”.

Goddammit, why is he here? Fox has had all this time to think of a reason to visit you on his walk here and yet the very thought is only crossing his mind now. Thankfully, you speak again, brushing past his awkwardness.

“Is that wine?” you squint your eyes, convinced your gaze must be deceiving you.

Letting out a laugh, you continue with your barrage of questions “Commander, are you drinking on the job?”.

He watches as you raise an eyebrow, your eyes glued to the bottle in his hand. Fox would feel flustered if it isn’t for your disarming laugh. Hell, if droids had your laugh instead of repeating ‘roger roger’ all the damn time, Fox is sure he would have forgotten how to shoot and died in his first encounter with them.

The ghost of a smile graces his lips as he finally manages to reply. Lifting his arm to look at the bottle, he simply asks “You think I’m a wine drinker?”. You laugh again and it makes his chest tighten.

Although you’ve overheard many troopers complain about the infamously ‘by the books’ Commander, you enjoy his company. Unfortunately, a lot of people don’t give clones a chance, practically viewing them as droids with heartbeats. You, on the other hand, much prefer their company over the likes of senators or even some jedi.

You’ll always remember the first time you officially met the Commander of the Coruscant Guard. Beforehand, one of the other senators pointed him out to you, warning you to steer clear as it was well known Fox was very cut and dry, never kissing the asses of pretentious senators who believed they were the chosen one. But when you actually met Fox, it was after you had already befriended Thorn and Hound.

Since you were genuinely interested in getting to know the clones, Hound thought it would be a good idea to show you their private quarters, assuring you it was all above board and not a breach of protocol… yep, that was a lie.

You spent all of 5 minutes in their private quarters, listening intently as Thorn gave you a very in depth review of their nutrition bars, a food they must rely on as a snack to get them through their shifts. He even gave you a few to take with you but that’s when Commander Fox appeared behind you. Sheer annoyance emulated from him and within a few seconds, he was escorting you out of their private quarters.

Neither of you knew it then but that was the start of a beautiful friendship, one where you often annoyed the Commander yet he always put up with you.

“No, I never imagined you as a wine drinker,” you admit, crossing your arms as your posture becomes more relaxed. Although his eyes briefly flick down your body, Fox tries to ignore how your hips sway with your change of stance. Thinking for a moment, you conclude “You’re definitely more of a cocktail kinda guy”.

For the first time today, Fox rolls his eyes not out of annoyance but in an affectionate way. “Very funny” he comments sarcastically.

“So why are you carrying around a bottle of wine, Commander?” You query, lips tugging upwards when you hear an audible sigh leave his helmet. That’s a normal indication from Fox that you’re in for one hell of a story.

Fox steps forward, placing the wine on your desk and subconsciously leaning against the solid structure, his body weary from the long day. Taking this to mean the formal part of his visit is over, you sit back down, your head propped up by both of your hands as you eagerly wait for him to begin.

Maker, if you could see yourself; a relaxed smile on your lips, body instinctively leaning in his direction and your eyes, kriff, your eyes, sparkling with curiosity as you give the Commander your undivided attention. It makes his heart stutter, heat rushing to his cheeks.

Usually he only gets this kind of attention from senators when they’re yelling at him to do a better job or expecting him to save their ass from whatever threat happens to grace the Senate.

Fox starts from the beginning, describing how obnoxiously the Chancellor’s guests wandered in and telling you everything that’s happened until now. You laugh at various parts, especially when he goes off on a tangent about how arrogant the guests were.

This is one of your favourite things about Fox, his rants are always so hilarious. Not many people laugh at what the Commander says and most of the time Fox doesn’t see the humour in his rants either. But that only makes it funnier to you.

He’s so blunt in his description of the Chancellor’s guests, not hesitating to mention how one was obviously trying to hide their bald spot and how another spent half the time trying to fish some snot out of their nose.

Usually Fox doesn’t elaborate this much when speaking to others, keeping his renditions brief but when it comes to telling you about his day, he likes to add in little comments or mention details he normally never would.

Besides, if mentioning some extra details means you’ll keep your attention on him for just a little bit longer, then it’s worth it.

Once Fox tells you why he took this detour, you gasp dramatically “Commander, it’s not like you to ditch your duties”.

He scoffs, his plastoid shoulder pads rolling as he shrugs “I’m not ditching my duties… technically, I’ve been off duty for the last minute and a half”.

“And before that? When you were still on duty and complaining about your dear old Chancellor’s guests?” you goad, though you know you have a better chance at beating Count Dooku in a lightsaber fight than getting the Commander to admit that he was, in fact, ditching duties.

“I was informing a senator of the current proceedings within the Senate,” he replies, authority laced deep in his voice as he gestures to you “it’s imperative that senators such as yourself are aware of any unidentified guests entering the facility”.

Goddammit he’s good. “Touché, Commander,” you reply “and the wine? What are you going to do with it now?”.

“I’ll have to return it to the Chancellor tomorrow when I relay what happened to him,” he states “I’m sure he’s already retired to his private quarters for the night”.

“Really?” you try to hide the slight disappointment in your voice but Fox is quick to pick up on it.

“Why?” he scans your face, trying to identify what he’s said wrong “What do you propose I do with it?”.

You have the perfect idea in mind but first you shrug, wanting to downplay your plan “Well I’m sure your brothers would appreciate a bottle of that size, it’s sure to lift a few spirits”. That earns another scoff from him, just as expected.

“Or…” you continue, looking at the time on your holopad “you are off duty and Maker knows you deserve a drink and I don’t know, maybe you could share some with your favourite senator?”. You flash him a cheesy smile to seal the deal. This is a hard bargain to sell, you’re well aware of that but if you don’t try then you’ll never know.

Fox thinks for a moment, his helmet tilting down at the bottle. How do you have such a hold on him? When the group of Vurk politicians even suggested taking the bottle, Fox was well and truly over the idea but with you? He can’t believe he’s actually considering it. I mean, would the Chancellor really know any different if Fox simply didn’t mention it again? Surely he would just assume the bottle was given to the guests and that would be the end of it.

Damn it, is he malfunctioning right now? Fox can feel your gaze on him and before you can backtrack your idea, he says “I guess there’s no harm in it…”.

A tingle of excitement surges through you. Now this is exactly what you need after such a boring day but you want to make sure. “Is that a ‘yes’, Commander?” You pry, holding your breath in anticipation.

“It's a ‘you’re an extremely bad influence’,” he corrects you before adding “but it’s also a yes”.

The second a bright grin spreads across your face, Fox knows this decision, while very risky, is completely worth it. “Yes!” you exclaim, jumping up from your seat and making your way around the desk and closer to Fox.

Fox holds the bottle steady and twists the cap off, breaking the seal before handing it to you. “I don’t have any glasses,” you caution, unsure whether that’ll be an issue “so I hope you don’t mind sharing”. You wait for Fox’s reply, not wanting to start downing the bottle without his blessing.

He gives a short laugh “That’s not an issue to me”.

With that as his sign of approval, you take a moment to brace yourself before bringing the mouth of the bottle to your lips. While you take your first gulp of wine, Fox moves his hands up to his helmet, unclicking it and finally taking it off. It’s something he doesn't do often while in the Senate Building but he can’t exactly drink the wine any other way.

As you bring the bottle away from your mouth, you're too busy dealing with the strange bitterness of the wine to notice his sudden change in appearance.

“Wow,” your face involuntarily scrunches up, your arm holding out the bottle to Fox “that’s a lot stronger than I expected”.

Fox settles his helmet on your desk, making sure to avoid placing it on top of your paperwork. “Too strong for you?” he teases, a smirk playing on his lips “Well, that’s really saying something”. Satisfied with where his helmet is placed, he turns to look at you.

Your mouth falls open as his gaze meets yours and for a second, you forget how to breathe. It’s strange to think this is the first time you’ve seen Fox without his helmet on, yet with the current situation the galaxy finds itself in, it’s not something you’ve ever found weird.

He doesn't look like the rest of the clones, well of course he does to some degree but unlike most of them, Fox understandably has many dark circles under his eyes.

Although he looks clean shaven, the inklings of a 5 o’clock shadow enhance his jawline. He has a few scars scattered across his face, the largest one looking like it came from some sort of animal. Perhaps that’s how he got his name.

But the Commander's most distinguishable feature is his hair, a salt and pepper mixture of the usual dark hair of clones with silver hairs scattered throughout, presumably from the amount of stress he’s constantly under. Maker, why does he hide under that helmet all day? Probably because of the amount of people who would be throwing themselves at him if he didn’t wear — oh kriff, you’re staring.

Fox looks at you with a furrowed brow, wondering just how strong this wine is. “Fox - uh, Commander - sorry,” you stutter, the words spilling from your mouth “um, here, it’s your turn to drink”. You practically shove the bottle into his hands.

Fox doesn't comment on your rattled demeanour, taking the bottle and deciding he should judge for himself how strong this wine is. Taking a swig from the bottle, he holds the liquid in his mouth for a few moments before swallowing. It’s definitely strong, a sharp pang hitting his taste buds. Thankfully, it doesn’t last long and the rich aftertaste helps ease the intensity.

“It certainly has a kick to it” he determines, taking a moment to examine the bottle’s shiny label before passing it back to you.

“Do you want to sit?” You ask, gesturing to that damn couch as you take the wine from him. Fox nods and you both get settled on the couch, the Commander sitting very formally with both feet planted on the ground in contrast to you, curled up with your feet tucked in by your body.

“Sorry for staring,” you blurt out, swiftly taking another drink before you elaborate “it’s just that I’ve never seen your face before”.

Fox smiles to himself for a moment before shifting his gaze to you, endearment in his eyes. “Yes you have” he corrects you.

“Huh? No, every time we talk, you always have your helmet on,” you protest, absolutely certain you’re right.

“You’ve still seen my face before this” he says drily and it takes you a couple of seconds to catch on.

“Oh,” your eyelids drop “just because I’ve seen other clone’s faces doesn’t mean I knew what you looked like”.

“That’s exactly what it means actually” he shrugs, taking the bottle from you. Fox knows he’s slowly starting to wind you up but it’s one of the few joys he has.

“You could’ve been a droid under there for all I knew,” you reply exasperatedly “besides, just because you’re all clones that doesn’t mean you all look like carbon copies of each other”.

Yes, it does, but after another gulp of wine, Fox is more interested in how you see it if not the obvious. “How so?” he inquires.

You have an obvious answer. Not every clone you’ve seen is as attractive as Fox. Although you’d love to give this answer, you haven’t had enough wine to start shamelessly flirting with the Commander just yet. Instead you opt for the teasing answer.

“Not every clone is greying as fast as you, Fox”.

Fox takes another large gulp of wine after that, his eyes rolling yet again. “That’s Commander to you” he mutters.

“Oh I’m so sorry, not every clone is greying as fast as you, Commander”.

You’re lucky Fox likes this about you. You can dish it just as well as you can take it, never shying from a confrontation or an opportunity to tease him. Placing his free hand on his knee, Fox mutters “That’s it, I’m going to see if Senator Amidala would like some of this wine instead”.

He doesn’t even get a chance to move before your hand is on his shoulder. “What? Wait! But I haven’t even told you about my run in with Senator Aak” you hastily reveal. It was only last week Fox had been complaining to you about the senator so you know he’ll appreciate a good story of how you got the better of him earlier in the day.

He doesn't answer immediately, trying not to draw attention to your hand still being on his shoulder in fear you’ll quickly remove it if he does.

Settling back down, he nods “Go on”. Fox tries to keep his face neutral when you remove your hand, instead putting your open palm in front of him.

He huffs, feigning annoyance as he gives you the bottle. Happy with your small victory, you take a hurriedly swig of the wine before telling Fox all about your earlier encounter with the senator.

It isn’t very exciting, especially in comparison to what Fox has to deal with but you know he’ll be happy to hear you won a debate against Senator Aak. After all, your mutual dislike of the senator is one of the many things you both happen to have in common.

As you tell him all about your interaction, Fox relaxes more and more, the both of you casually passing the bottle to one another.

Admittedly, Fox can’t recall the last time he’s had a drink. He knows it was probably at 79's but he rarely gets enough time off to genuinely unwind and whenever he does, he’s usually interrupted and called back to work. The more you talk, the less Fox pays attention, the warm feeling in his chest urging him to take this time to fully admire your features.

You blabber on with your story, subconsciously scooting closer to the Commander as you continue to relay what happened. Although you don’t feel too tipsy, the fuzzy feeling in your head is a clear indication the wine is finally starting to set in.

It feels weird to have the Commander’s attention on you. It’s something you’ve had numerous times in the past but to have it and actually see his face is a whole new experience. You can see exactly what he’s looking at and each small change of his expression, which is actually pretty daunting.

“You should’ve seen the look on his face,” you continue with your story, trying to ignore how his brown eyes shine like dews of honey “he was so flustered that I actually called him out and he was trying to think of a rebuttal but… wow, your eyes are really pretty”.

Ok, maybe you’ve had enough wine.

You watch as Fox realises what you said, the sudden shift of conversation catching him off guard. “Oh… that was the senator's rebuttal?” He questions, wishing he paid more attention to what you were saying.

“No, I uh, sorry, that just came out,” you laugh nervously, trying to do some damage control “sorry, that was unprofessional of me to say”.

Fox holds back a laugh, a smirk creeping up on his face as he swirls the remainder of the wine around the bottle “Yeah cause this is completely professional”.

You roll your eyes, playfully shoving him as you scoff “You know what I mean”. Fox’s smirk only gets wider, noting how you’re much more physical when you’re tipsy, seeking out any reason to touch him.

Could you possibly feel the same? Fox never truly saw that as a possibility until now, knowing duty must always come first and that he should never indulge in such fantasies… but if you feel it too then maybe testing out the waters wouldn’t hurt.

“No, I don’t think I ‘know what you mean’” Fox tests you.

You let out an audible sigh, knowing he’s being difficult on purpose. Fidgeting with your hands, you break his fierce gaze. How are you supposed to explain your sudden desire to compliment him? How can you let him know how much you yearn for him without blatantly saying it out of fear of rejection? Is that even possible?

“I just- you know how… I don’t know… c’mon, you have to know what I mean” kriff, it’s a struggle to get the words out.

Rolling his shoulders, Fox takes the opportunity to subtly lean closer to you. If it isn’t for the sensation of his hot breath hitting against your cheek when he speaks, you’re certain you would have missed what he says, his voice a mere whisper “You’re cute when you’re flustered”.

The comment makes you impulsively look back up to him, your eyes widening when you see his full attention is on your lips. You want to melt under his gaze, to pull him close and finally show him how you feel. “Commander…” is all you can get out, your throat tightening as you inch closer to him, eyes shutting.

Fox does the same, edging closer until his nose softly brushes against yours, the touch so intimate it almost makes him gasp with anticipation. He can hear the thudding of his heart thunder through his ears and he prays the thickness of his armour deafens the noise to you.

Your mind is whizzing almost as fast as the speeders outside but you try to ignore it, wanting to live in the moment and not think of the repercussions this might cause. Both of you continue on slowly, a warmth capturing your lips as his mouth hovers over yours.

Before the commander can fully press his lips to yours, a quick ping sound goes off, closely followed by a ringing noise you recognise. Fox sighs, knowing what it is too. Keeping his eyes shut, he lifts his arm up to his mouth, pulling away from you.

There’s a brief second you think there’s some hesitation in Fox but you know duty will always come first.

“What?” His voice is gruff, obviously not appreciating the interruption.

A familiar voice answers “Commander, there’s an altercation taking place outside the Chancellor’s Suite, sir. Senator Clovis is demanding to speak to the Chancellor over some, uh…”. There’s some scuffling and you hear Senator Clovis in the background, impatiently demanding they get out of his way. “Uh… some policy, I think, sir. We’ve already informed him that the Chancellor has retired to his private quarters for the night but he’s not interested in listening to us”.

Fox lets a few seconds pass before answering, mulling over what his head is telling him to do versus his heart. With restraint in his voice, he firmly replies “Keep him there, I’m on my way”.

Although this sort of reply is to be expected from the Commander of the Coruscant Guard, you can’t help the way your heart sinks. Yet, you force a smile as you quietly say “Duty calls”. Fox looks at you with sorrowful eyes, unsure how to respond and so he simply nods.

With the wine in his hand, Fox stands, suddenly feeling quite dizzy. He tries not to let it show, knowing he has a job to do.

You stand too, following the Commander as he goes to the desk to retrieve his helmet. Placing the bottle where his helmet was, Fox gives you one more sympathetic look before obscuring his face with the helmet, clicking it back into place.

Kriff, you miss his face already. Would it be unprofessional to rush over and take it back off? Ask him to comm his brother back and say he has more pressing matters at hand? You swallow, knowing this isn’t a viable option.

Turning to face you, Fox loosely gestures to the bottle “You can keep the wine”.

“You sure you don’t want to chug the rest before you go?” you joke, yet the disappointment is still clear in your tone “If you have to go deal with Senator Clovis then you might need the extra encouragement”.

“Chugging wine seems more your style” Fox teases, tearing his eyes away from your face and walking to the door. Like a lost puppy, you follow him again, not wanting to be without his presence.

With his hand hovering over the door’s command panel, he shifts his head to look at you one more time. “I…” Fox has so much he wants to say to you yet the words refuse to come out “thank you… for the drink”. He scrunches his eyes shut, glad you can’t see his face anymore. Out of everything he could have said, that’s the best he’s got?

He hears you shift and his eyes spring open, just in time to see you lean up and place a kiss on the side of his helmet. “No, Fox, thank you” you reply.

In a rare occurrence, the Commander is too stunned to speak. His brain short circuits and he has no idea how to respond. Never did Commander Fox think he would be envious of his helmet, but right now, he would do anything to have felt that kiss. Your lips so close yet so far away.

With an abrupt nod, Fox exits your office, waiting for the durasteel doors to shut behind him before taking a moment to process what has just occurred.

With Fox gone, a smile creeps up on your face, an electric feeling buzzing in your stomach. Proud of yourself, you walk back to your desk, sitting down with the bottle of wine in hand. Taking a quick swig, you revel in your small victory as for once, Fox didn’t correct you when you didn’t use his official GAR title of Commander.

If he’ll let you get away with that then maybe you should kiss him more often.

Significant

Summary: Din has been calling you riduur for months. You finally find out what it means, and get a little more than you bargained for.

Pairing: Din Djarin x gn!Reader

Word Count: ~5.1k

Warnings: pining, absolute FOOLS in love, bit of grumpy x sunshine, lil angsty, possibly incorrect lore, fluff, lots of Mando'a (translations for the Mando'a at the end)

A/N: Happy Mandalorian Eve!! This is based on a short drabble I wrote, which you can find here! It's not necessary to read it first, though of course I recommend it! The reader and Din have been traveling together for a long time, and after removing his armor in front of the reader for the first time began calling them riduur.

“Riduur.” 

It may as well be your name, the way you turn at the sound of that word. 

“Din,” you return, adjusting the child’s little sleeve which had fallen down past his hand.

“Are you ready?” He asks as he tilts his head to the side. 

You smile and turn back to Grogu. “Dad’s impatient today, isn’t he?” The child coos up at you, lifting tiny arms, ready to be picked up. “Yeah, he is.”

“I’m not impatient,” Din grumbles lowly.

You raise a brow at that and lift Grogu into your arms. “You’re always impatient, Mando.” His head jerks to the side at your assessment.

You have to bite back a laugh. In truth, he is incredibly patient. Most of the time, and especially when it came to you and Grogu. The only time you’ve seen him truly lose his temper was with the Jawas, and really, that couldn’t be helped. 

The child reaches for Din when you turn back to him, and the Mandalorian immediately holds out his arms to take him from you. You deposit the little green baby there before grabbing your shawl. “Yes, we’re ready,” you finally answer. 

The baby gets tucked into the pouch at Din’s hip, before he descends the ship’s ramp out into the desert air that awaits you. 

You roll your eyes gently. 

Not impatient, but not entirely patient either. 

You follow, wrapping the light material around your shoulders. 

It’s subtle, but he does wait for you, his pace slower than if he were alone. His right elbow ticks out a fraction, and you smile before cupping your hand there. He would never ask you to take his arm, still the offer is usually there if he can accommodate it. 

He relaxes a little when you fit your hand against his bicep. “Supplies only,” he reminds you, ever practical. 

“Supplies only,” you agree. “Unless I see something for Grogu.” 

“The child is becoming spoiled,” he complains lightly. “We won’t have enough room in the ship soon.” 

You shrug and tighten your grip on his arm. You like the way he says we. So, you return with, “That’s just because our child deserves the best.” 

Din’s spine straightens a fraction and his shoulders tilt back. 

He’s somehow both stoic and incredibly bad at hiding his emotions. You can tell, just by the slope of his shoulders or the exact angle of the helmet or the precise way he stands or walks, exactly what and how he’s feeling. 

Or, maybe you’ve just spent too much time around him. 

Maybe, you just know him too well. 

And right now, he’s swollen with pride. Though you don’t know if it's because you’ve complimented the way he takes care of the child or if it were something else. Something in the way you said our.  

It’s not long before you reach the market, and Din sighs as soon as it comes into view. It’s much larger than the ones you normally frequent, a riot of color and sound that you both know you won’t be able to resist. The town seems to be in the midst of some kind of festival. 

The smell of fried food greets you before you’ve even breached the perimeter of the town, and your mouth waters. Something better than rations awaited you there. 

Din is single minded though, and you know he’ll immediately make for the most boring of the stalls and shops. 

Supplies only, after all, is what you’d come for. 

“Mando,” you remove your hand from his arm and he immediately halts at the loss of your touch and turns to you. “I’m going to go look around.” 

He stares at you, helmet tilting down. He doesn’t like telling you no, and knows it wouldn’t matter if he did anyways. But, he worries and so it takes a moment for him to reply. “Don’t go far,” he advises. “Do you have a comlink?”

“Yes.” 

“A weapon?” 

You pretend to search your person, “Hm, what’s that again?” 

“Riduur,” he reprimands your teasing. 

That word makes the inside of your skin light up pleasantly. Riduur. If only you knew what it meant. 

You’ve started to assume it means something similar to cyare or cyar'ika. But he’d had no problem telling you what those words meant. Darling and sweetheart and beloved. He’d had no problem telling you he was calling you beloved. 

But he no longer calls you cyare or cyar'ika. Since the first time he’d called you riduur, the day he removed his armor in front of you for the first time, he’d solely begun calling you riduur. 

Even your name is becoming a rarity from his lips. 

“Udesii! Yes,” you cross your arms. “You know I took care of myself for a very long time without you and nothing ever happened. I’ll be okay.” 

Din doesn’t answer, just sighs and gives a curt nod and marches off towards a shop selling medical supplies. 

The dramatics of it all makes you giggle. You like teasing him, especially because he thinks he hides how flustered you make him well. 

Although you enjoy traveling with the Mandalorian, alone time has become a complete rarity. You were always with Din, or watching your little green menace.

You eat your way through a couple of different stalls selling food, bundling up second and third servings to keep for Din and Grogu. 

Din wouldn’t think to get anything beyond rations. Both you and the child like a little more variety, where Din treats the act of eating like a maintenance routine. 

You drift past stalls hawking trinkets and jewelry, fending off the sellers as you crunch something sweet and sour you’d picked up at the last food stall, not entirely sure what it is.  

Textiles are next, bolts of cloth you run your fingers over but mourn not being able to afford. Still, it's nice to browse, nice to feel normal. The Mandalorian isn’t hunting someone for once, and you aren’t trapped in the interior of the ship, stale recycled dry air burning your nostrils. 

A little supply stop has become a little welcome relief. It’s giving you the chance to stretch your legs, to explore. 

Still, your mind drifts back to Din, the way he calls you something he would not name to you.

You’ve searched before, in other markets, on other worlds, for the answer to your question. What does that word mean and why won’t Din tell you? 

You’d tried to convince him once or twice, with gentle words whispered in his ear, when the helmet was off and your hands were pressed against his skin, the contours of his face still a mystery to you. 

Once, you’d felt the skin of his cheeks go hot beneath your hands when you told him he used his tongue so prettily, couldn’t he use it to tell you what riduur meant? 

He’d mumbled something else in Mando’a but had not explained himself. 

You can understand most of that he says now, but because he’s the only other speaker, you have to rely on him to tell you what new words and phrases mean.

Because the Mandalorians are such an insular people, you never come across any other speakers you could ask. There are no dictionaries to Basic that you could download and peruse. 

It’s frustrating, especially since the word seems to be laden with something heavy. Din says it with reverence, with a softness that doesn't cut through the rest of his words. His voice is softer when he speaks Mando’a anyways, but that word is held with a reverence on his tongue, like it’s precious. 

The only other time you had heard him use that tone was when he once called Grogu ad’ika, which meant child. 

You’ve almost given up on knowing, resigned to that fact that you may never know and he may never tell you.

Whatever it means, you’re sure it's important. You just don’t know why.

The market is loud, boisterous and colorful. Music floats through the air, shouts and laughter. 

It’s nice, it makes you smile and you wish you’d taken the child with you because you’re sure he’d have much more fun with you than with Din picking out rolls of bandage and rations and pulse rifle cartridges if he can find someone that has some. 

You stop suddenly in your tracks when you hear a conversation in a language you immediately recognize, the familiar syllables cutting through the afternoon chatter. 

You spin and find two men in robes speaking gently to each other in Mando’a. Before you can stop yourself, your feet have already carried you to their table where they sit sipping cups of caf. 

“Su cuy'gar,” you greet. They both look surprised, glancing at each other and then back at you. “Sorry to bother you. You speak Mando’a?” 

One smiles, “Yes. Of the few outsiders that do, I think.” 

“Were you foundlings?” It’s the only way, you think, that they could have learned it. 

“Once,” the older of the two says. “This one learned it at a university.” 

You can’t help the curiosity that burns through you, “At a university? Really?” 

“Only the very barest basics. From a woman being courted by a Mandalorian,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. “That was a long time ago. Really I learned from him.” He gestures between himself and the other man. 

You shake yourself, “I’ve just never met another aruetii that does.” Let alone two of them, you think dizzily. Two outsiders who spoke Mando’a. 

“And how did you learn?” 

“My…” you trail off. 

Your what? You aren’t sure what exactly Din is to you, or what you are to him. You never have been. He treats you like you’re more precious than beskar, yet everything between you remains undefined. 

“My traveling companion. He’s a Mandalorian.” You swallow, “I wonder if you could tell me if you know what a certain word means? It’s one I’ve been curious about.” You don’t want to tell them that you’re seeking it out because it's something he calls you. That feels too private, too close to the chest. “He said it once and I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.” 

“Why don’t you ask him?” 

“It would wound my pride. He’s already taught me so much. He overestimates my fluency.” 

They laugh and the man who was once a foundling says, “Yes, ask us then.” 

“Riduur,” you say, carefully pronouncing it so they don’t mistake it for another word. “Riduur,” you repeat with more confidence. 

The men glance at each other, brows raised. “Well, it has several meanings,” the more grizzled of the two says, “But I suppose it's all the same in the end. Spouse would be the most overarching translation. Partner, wife, and husband all work too.” 

For a moment, you can’t breathe, you’re sure your heart has come to a leaping halt in your chest. “Truly? Riduur?” You say it again, just to make sure. They laugh and nod and you decide to have your meltdown away from their table. “Well, thank you for clearing that up. Sorry again to bother you.” 

You turn away from them, a roaring in your ears. Your heart stutters in your chest. Riduur. He’s been calling you his partner, his spouse, for months? That word so softly spoken to you - to tease you, to call for you, whispered to you in the dark, said over and over, more than your own name. It meant partner, spouse, wife, husband?

Something inside you lights up with pride. The shape of it is warm, firm in the clasp of your lungs. Riduur. It’s a living, breathing kind of word, one that takes up space inside you. One you’re proud to bear the weight of, the title of. 

Spouse, you think, doesn’t carry the same gravitas as riduur. There’s something heavier and deeper in the word that a translation couldn’t really carry over into Basic. 

You start back down the road, smiling to yourself, but only make it several paces when Din steps up beside you silently from between two stalls. “Dank farrik,” you gasp, stumbling back. “Where did you come from? You scared me.” 

He doesn’t answer you, doesn’t even tilt his head towards you. You may as well have not spoken at all. 

“Mando?” 

Still, he doesn’t answer you. 

You raise a brow but don’t say anything else as he herds you gently out of the market, desert dust swirling around your calves. Eventually, when you reach the edge of the town, he asks, “Did you find everything you need?” His voice is flat, rough. 

“Yes, I got some food for you and Grogu to try. A little feast for you tonight, since it won’t hold.”

He merely grunts and you frown. “Is something wrong?” You glance over your shoulder. “Did something happen? Are we being followed?”

You glance around his legs at the baby, still securely in the brown canvas bag, who’s peering up at both of you with anxious eyes, big ears drooping. 

“No.” He answers curtly. 

The walk back to the ship is silent, and tense, and you aren’t sure why. 

It’s only when you’re in the safety of the mouth of the ship’s ramp, with the baby in your arms, that your irritation spills over. “Are you upset with me? I didn’t wander. I stayed close and had a weapon and -,” 

Din’s hands go to his hips, helm tilting at an angle as he regards you. His voice is agitated when he finally speaks. You expect him to tell you that you wandered too far, that he commed you and you hadn’t picked it up, that you’d unknowingly wandered into danger. And you expect to have to tell him once again that it's all fine, that you are fine, that you’d traveled without him for years and things always turned out alright. 

Instead, he says, “You should not call yourself an aruetii. That is not what you are.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t register with you what he’s talking about, that he’d clearly overheard your conversation with the Mando’a speakers, likely eavesdropped on it. 

All you are, for a few seconds, is confused. “But…I am an aruetii. I am not a Mandalorian.”

Din’s shoulders go stiff at your words. “That does not make you an outsider. You…you are far from an outsider,” he growls and suddenly spins away from you, his footfalls heavy and loud when he stomps across the hull.

He climbs the ladder to the cockpit and disappears, leaving both you and the baby alone, still standing on the ramp up to the ship. “He’s angry with me,” you say in disbelief, glancing down at the child in your arms, not really understanding why. “We’ll let him cool off,” you decide, bouncing the child against your waist. “Hungry?” 

The baby coos and you smile, worry biting into you as you settle with him in the mouth of the ship. The sun is setting on the sand, the air warm, casting red shadows over the world. There’s nothing around you but sand in any direction you glance, aside from the town from which you’d come on the horizon. 

In the distance, fireworks from the town explode in the sky. You point them out to Grogu, gently feeding him bites of food that you’d gotten at the market. He makes a sound that you suppose is a giggle, big eyes focused on the colors dissipating in the sky. He holds a tiny hand up, like he’d like it to fly to him. 

You curl a hand over his. “None of that,” you say with a laugh. “Those are meant for the stars, not you.” 

He goes back to eating, already distracted. 

A weight settles over your chest.

If Din heard you call yourself aruetii then he knows that you now know what riduur means. 

Maybe that was the true source of his irritation, that you’d gone behind his back to figure out what it meant when he clearly hadn’t wanted you to know.

You rub the tip of Grogu’s ear between your fingers and sigh. 

Any warm feelings you’d had are gone. 

Riduur. 

He’s been calling you that for months. But he hadn’t wanted you to know that he was calling you his partner. For some reason it stings. 

The Mandalorian is not cruel, not the type to play with another’s feelings. But, nonetheless, it feels like he might have been. Teasing you in a way you couldn’t begin to guess at. Or, like he could pretend without actually attaching himself to you, and you’d be none the wiser. 

You shake those thoughts away, listening to the music echoing over the sands. 

When Grogu falls asleep and the sun is just disappearing behind the horizon, you secure the ramp of the ship and carry the baby up into the cockpit. 

Din sits silently in the pilot’s chair, and doesn’t look at you as you tuck the child into the floating pod. 

You fidget with his blanket, not sure what to say. 

“I’m sorry,” he breaks the silence first. “Ni ceta.” 

“Din,” you perch next to him in the co-pilot’s seat. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone poking around where I don’t belong. I’m sorry.” 

His head tilts toward you, the visor impenetrable. You swallow when he doesn’t answer, an inexplicable lump forming in the back of your throat. “Don’t belong?” 

“I shouldn’t have asked them what riduur meant. You didn’t want me to know.” 

Din stands and holds out a hand to you. You take it carefully and let him pull you to your feet. “That is not why I-,” he stops. “Do you really not know?” 

“Know what?” 

“I should have been…honest about the name I’ve given you.” He tilts his head and releases your hands. “I’m upset because-,” the Mandalorian pauses and seems to consider his next words for a long moment. Finally, he sighs and simply repeats, “You’re not an aruetii. By definition you can’t be.”

You stare at him for a long moment, before shaking your head. “I don’t understand.” 

He huffs, helm ticking to the side again. “Would you call Grogu an outsider?” 

“Of course not,” you answer, horrified. “No.” 

“And why is that? He’s not a Mandalorian either.” 

You don’t have to think about it, shaking your head before he’s even finished speaking. “He’s your child.” 

Din steps forward, close to you, but doesn’t say anything. “Our child,” he corrects eventually. “I am upset because you don’t seem to know you are a part of our clan. Even after knowing what I’ve been calling you. Riduur, ner riduur, for months. You still don’t know.”

Oh. Oh. 

“Osi'kyr,” you murmur softly. “How could I know that, Din?” 

He stands silent and still before you, so still you aren’t sure he’s breathing. “I thought it was clear,” he says stiffly. “I thought it was clear I was courting you.”

Something pleasantly warm settles in among your heart and lungs. “Maybe you should explain your customs to me more thoroughly,” you joke lightly. 

He doesn’t laugh, shoulders tense, hands curled in anxious fists. 

“So why not tell me what the word means?” It seems a bit past courting to you, to call someone riduur. It seems to you he’s already chosen you. 

He shifts from foot to foot, the movement somehow laden with vulnerability and worry. “If you did not…want the same - I’m not sure I could bear that.” 

You stare at him, not entirely sure what to say to that. “So, what,” you start, “you expected me to one day just realize you considered me your-,”

“I would have told you,” he interrupts quickly. “One day.” 

“Told me-,” 

“What riduur means,” he corrects. “And asked if you’d like to be that.” Din takes your hands again, “Just know that you are part of this clan, whatever your answer is.” His voice is so sincere, it breaks your heart a little. “Whether you want to be attached to me or not, you have a place in this clan. You are not an aruetii.”

You tilt your head at the same time he does, the nonverbal cues you both habit in reflecting between you. “I’m just a bit confused. Was that your idea of a proposal?” You smile so he knows you’re teasing him. 

Din gives a long suffering sigh. “Mandalorians do not propose.” 

“Oh. So what do you do then?” You lift a brow, sliding your hands to his wrists so you can work on tugging one glove off at a time. 

“We make an agreement,” he says, not trying to stop you. His voice is hoarse. “We make vows.”

You don’t look up, tucking the gloves in your belt before tracing your fingers along the veins in his wrists, the lines of his palms. “Oh. And did you make vows to me that I wasn’t aware of?” 

You’re still joking, but Din takes your words to heart. He shakes one hand loose from yours and presses it beneath your jaw, tipping your head gently back. “I did. I make vows to you everyday.” 

All the air seems to get sucked out of the ship. You gape at him, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out as you struggle to find words. He chuckles, low and breathy beneath the helmet. You imagine he must be smiling. “Now you see how you make me feel. Like I can’t breathe.”

You finally manage to take a breath, lifting your chin away from his fingers, threads of embarrassment beating under your skin at his teasing. “You could have told me, you know.” 

“It was too large a risk. I wouldn’t risk you.”

Maybe you should hesitate in your next words. 

But you don’t. 

You’ve never been surer in something. 

“Din,” you step close to him. “I would take those vows.” 

“They…they are heavy vows. Not meant to be taken lightly. They’re bonding vows.”

He thinks you don’t get it, that you still don’t understand. “I understand what kind of vows they are. What are the vows?” You step even closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours. 

He smells like sun, like spices from the market and oil on beskar. It makes you dizzy, the usual scent of him is much cooler. Evergreen and pine. 

The cockpit is dark, the very last dregs of light on the horizon gone. The contours of the helm are shadowed, the flicker of lights from the control panels reflecting in blinking lights over the visor. 

There is no hesitation in his voice when he finally speaks. 

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.” 

You mouth the words, doing your best to translate them. 

But he’s spoken too quickly, and you only understand part of it. He waits for you to ask for him to translate, giving you a moment to attempt it instead of immediately telling you. 

“I only understand part…We are one together and-,”

“We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors,” he says easily. “We are - we are all of those things already. I have kept the promise I made.” 

Your throat is dry, and you can’t think about how that’s true. “We’re raising warriors?” You attempt a joke. 

“Would you not call the child a warrior?”

“I would,” you agree. “I would also still take those vows, now knowing their meaning.”

There’s a long pause in which you can feel the Mandalorian’s stare. His gaze is intense, assessing, hot against your skin. You patiently look back, waiting. “You don’t have to.”

“You think I don’t want to.” 

He huffs, “I…don’t want you to believe you have to make vows to me. You are a part of our clan no matter what.” 

“Would you still call me riduur?”

“If you allowed it,” he takes a breath. “Yes.” 

The lip of the helm drifts up and you can sense he’s no longer looking at you, embarrassed. “Din.” His head snaps back down. “I know I am not an outsider.” You wait for him to digest those words. “I know this is my clan now. I still would like to make these vows to you.” 

He reaches up and presses his palms to either side of your jaw, the crown of the helmet pressing softly against your forehead for just a moment when he dips his head. “If you’re sure, repeat after me. We’ll say them together.” 

“Elek,” you agree. 

“Mhi solus tome,” he starts, reverence and disbelief lodged in his voice. 

In the distance, more fireworks explode in the sky. The colors reflect in the glass of the ship’s front window, sparking over the reflective helmet. “Mhi solus tome,” you say slowly, careful to pronounce each word exactly right. 

You’d never imagined yourself as someone who would get married, and certainly not like this. 

But that was before you knew Din. And all this feels to you is right. It’s both sudden and not. 

This was meant to happen. All your years with the Mandalorian lead towards this. 

You repeat the rest of the vows after him, slow and deliberate. 

When the final syllable rolls off your tongue, a muted kind of joy overcomes you. You’ve been a part of it for a long time, but you feel it now, the belonging to a clan and people. 

Din releases you and leans back. His chest rises and falls quickly. 

You close your eyes and reach for the edge of his helmet. 

You want to kiss him at the very least. 

But when your fingers skim over the release, he captures your wrists in one hand. You let go and Din reaches up with his opposite hand to take it off himself. 

You expect him to kiss you right away, but he doesn’t. You can only feel the lingering touch of his gaze. 

“Open your eyes.” 

“What? No-,” you begin to protest. 

“Yes. You can now, riduur.” The word rumbles out of him proudly, heavy in his mouth. 

You tilt your head and frown. “Are you-,” 

“This is the Way.” His voice warbles, just a little. 

“Are you sure?” You get the entire question out this time. 

Now it’s his turn to tease you. “No,” he says dryly. “I’ll change my mind after you open your eyes.” 

“Ha ha,” you deadpan. “You’re very funny.” 

“Open them.” 

You think you might be more nervous than him to see his face. You honestly never thought you would get to, and you had long ago made peace with that. It didn’t matter to you what he looked like, you knew his heart and that was more than enough. 

You’ve tried to picture him before, from tracing your fingers over his face, but the image is only half formed and without detail. It felt wrong, somehow, too, to try to picture the face of someone who deliberately hid it. 

 Slowly, you peek your eyes open at him. Whatever you had pictured is nothing compared to the man you find yourself gazing at. 

A sense of vertigo sweeps through you, because it's almost like looking at a stranger. 

You have to resist the urge, for just a moment, to tear yourself away from him. 

His hair is darker in color than you thought it would be, but just as feathery and lightly curled as you imagined. Din’s eyes are dark, a deep brown that you’d like to spend lifetimes memorizing, falling inside. You were right too, from your explorations of his face with your hands, about the shape of his nose, his mustache, the patchy beard. You’d pictured his eyes all wrong, the shape of jaw.

One thing you couldn’t have guessed at is the naked expressiveness in his eyes. 

It makes sense though, he’s spent a lifetime without the need to school his features into anything other than exactly what he was feeling. 

You wonder how many times he’s looked at you with such longing, and you never knew. 

He says your name, a question mark tagged onto the end of it, his voice wrecked and strange without the modulator muffling his voice. 

The sound of his voice rips the upside down feeling away. It’s his voice, it’s him. Not some handsome stranger. 

Your eyes flit up from where your gaze had lingered on his lips, the pink shape of his mouth against golden skin. “I was right.” 

He frowns, eyes soft and worried. It shocks you again, just how open his emotions read in his eyes. “About what?” 

“I knew you were pretty. You are pretty,” you tease, pressing yourself against him, the hard contours of him biting into you. You fist your hands into the fabric at his sides. “Mesh’la.” 

Din frowns at you. “I told you that means beautiful, didn’t I?” His voice is playful and doesn’t match his expression. 

You nod and don’t answer, reaching up to cup your hand against his cheek. Din’s arm settles easily around your waist, dragging you closer, the weight of his helm in his hand heavy against your hip. Normally, you’d let him close the distance between you but you can’t quite manage to let him now, gazing instead at the planes of his face. “Mesh’la,” you tell him. “Ner riduur.” 

“That’s my line.” 

“Not anymore,” you tease. “Husband.”

You tip your chin into his and wait for him to meet you there. 

He gives a slight smile before leaning into you. “Not husband. Riduur.” 

“Right,” you agree, because really, it isn’t quite the same. It can’t be. “Ner riduur.” 

The kiss lingers long on your lips. He’s savoring you, a warm passion that doesn’t quite extend into heat. Din’s tongue meets yours briefly, the groan it tugs from his mouth sending flashes of lightning all the way down to your toes. 

The fireworks outside are no rival for the feelings clawing up the back of your throat. 

You want to tell him you love him, but you think he already knows. 

He breaks away to set his helmet down. When he turns back to you, his hands roam over you, free in their movement, tugging at the band of your trousers. 

You can’t stop staring at him, suddenly overwhelmed, drinking in the sight of him, the naked expression of him, everything he’s thinking spread over his face like a well loved language. 

All you’d wanted was to know the name he gifted you, instead - this. 

You map your hand over his face, tracing the divot between his brows, the curve of one sharp cheekbone. “I never thought I would see your face,” you whisper. 

Those soft, vulnerable eyes meet yours, arm wrapping around you again, as his bare forehead presses to yours, “And I always knew you would.” 

Thank you for reading! Please let me know your thoughts!

If you want more of Din and his riduur, Significant-verse drabbles can be found here!

Translations:

Riduur - spouse, partner, wife, husband

Ner riduur - my spouse, partner, wife, husband

Cyare - beloved

Cyar'ika - darling, sweetheart

Udesii - Relax, take it easy

Ad’ika - little one, baby

Su cuy'gar - Hello

Aruetii - outsider, foreigner, traitor

Ni ceta - an apology, rare

Osi'kyr - exclamation of surprise

Elek - yes

Mesh’la - beautiful

It really was mystic messenger that ruined my life. You are really going to give me a scenario in which a super mega rich 26 y/o with his entire life together falls in love with me without seeing what I look like then proposes to me within like 10ish days of meeting me via text OH AND ALSO HES SO HOT?!?!?!? I have been set up to fail.

this fucks

u know whats wild. everyone on here like 20 and when i first joined everyone was like 14 15. u ask anybody n they been here for years. nobody new on here. staff locked the doors n were all Stuck Inside