summary: grim gets shot.
pairing: grim (clone trooper oc) / nurse!reader
tags: medical procedure, minor body gore
a/n: oh my god a star wars fic? for my boy??????
"What did I tell you—"
The medical tent is chaos, and you're at the helm. You slide a look to Kilo, who already has a sterilized set of surgical scissors at the ready. Kilo hands it off quickly, and below you, a certain Chief Medical Officer makes a strangled noise on the cot.
"I know, fuck, can we be a little nicer to me?" he grits out, face down, "I just got shot, okay? A little sympathy goes a long—FUCK."
"Are you lecturing me in bedside manners?" you ask, now gripping the molten piece of plastoid armor you'd just dug out from his shoulder between the scissors. Your surgical gloves are dappled with blood. You waggle it, a bite of anger rising in your cheeks, "You? Really? Really?"
"I love being under you, but right now you're scaring me—"
Grim probably deserves this. Getting shot in the back while hauling casualties off the field was bound to happen sooner or later — he'd dodged enough blaster bolts, close enough that he'd felt the heat through his armor, to know his luck was starting to dwindle. But it's a habit he isn't willing to break.
The Felucian heat clings to his neck. Mud and pollen and blood paint his armor with all sorts of muddied violence. You and Kilo had dragged him back to the travel med-tent by his arms as he'd kicked and screamed — even now, he bites his knuckle and ignores the taste of mud on the nanopreen.
"FU—ck."
You wince. Maybe you were being a little too rough. The wound is almost clean — that's the tricky part with these new CIS bolt shots, isn't it? The heat modifier on the barrel alters the reloads enough to eat through the Kamonioan's standard issue plastoid. Fuses it right with the skin. The only way to really ensure a decent heal is to carve out the melted armor from the burn site. Lots of bacta, too.
"I'm almost done—" your voice is strained as you lean over him and smooth a hand down his back. The hole in his bodysuit is nearly the size of your fist.
"Kilo?"
"Yessir?"
"I want you to take your blaster and shoot me in the fuckin' head, put me down like a fuckin'—"
You pluck a particularly stubborn piece of plastoid from the wound and Grim nearly folds in on himself. On instinct, you reach to soothe his hair. Guilt bubbles up, and you grit your teeth together tightly.
"I'm done. All done. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know," you hush quickly; the professionalism maintained is gone, and right now you're not nurse and CMO. It's just you and the man you love, "Kilo, could you get me the 1.8ml stim from the health pack— the blue."
"No," comes Grim's hoarse voice; suddenly, he's exhausted. The adrenaline has started to fade, "No stim."
Your fingers pause. Right.
"No stim," you affirm gently.
He reaches back blindly, over his head, and you take his hand with ease. Blood and mud forgot you squeeze his fingers. He squeezes back.
i just found out merriam webster has a time traveler feature that tells you some of the words that were “born” the same year as you. it’s pretty neat yall should do this
STAR WARS EPISODE I - THE PHANTOM MENACE (1999)
STAR WARS EPISODE II - ATTACK OF THE CLONES (2002)
STAR WARS EPISODE III - REVENGE OF THE SITH (2005)
OBI-WAN KENOBI SERIES (2022)
summary: you and din are tasked with repairing the main vaporator for the palace. you both get distracted.
length: 1.9k
pairing: din djarin x gn!reader, established here
a/n: whoops, here's a glorified hot-and-heavy make-out session with mr. djarin himself, starring perfect comedic timing. slightly citrus-flavored. the beautiful gif (wee) is by @carricfisher from this lovely set. with that, enjoy an addition to reunion.
The sun is beating down on your back.
Despite it being mid-morning, the Twin Suns have risen with bite. You squint, raise a hand to block out the blinding glare, and huff once again at the state of the Palace's main moisture harvester.
The spindling, towering piece of machinery is one of ten that services the Palace — and it's also the one that's given you consistent trouble since you, Boba, Fennec, and the growing troupe of n'er-do-wells have settled into the fixture along the Mos Eisley dune-line.
Din, leaning back against a nearby rock, crosses his arms.
You're sweating.
You let out a low curse when you reach your arm deep in, tug at a cool bar's caliper arm, and twist your face into a scowl. With a little bit of a wiggle, the vaporator spire releases the jammed coolant component. The hot hiss of steam that follows is not a good sign — neither is the apparent breach of one of the gasket seals. You pull your now damp arm back and shake off the hot beads of water from the long bar. The inner compartment, when you bend to peer in, is completely empty. Hot, stale condensation clings to the main chamber's walls.
You sag back on your heels, knees digging into the sand. You give the bootleg coolant bar in your hands one long look. Then, unceremoniously, you wind your arm back and chuck it as far as you can into the dunes. It bounces off a rock a few meters away.
Your gloves hands find your hips. A distraught little sound is wormed out of your throat as you hang your head.
All you wanted was to take a damn shower.
"Littering is a finable offense in New Republic space, you know," comes Din's gentle jest.
He swaggers through the dunes, coming to drop to a knee beside you. The suns bounce off his helmet as he lowers himself to look into the chamber of the vaporator. It's not as if his conclusion will be any different from yours, but he is shocked to see no water at all in the large spire's main enclosure. It should have one and a half liters of reserve — at least.
That explained the banging of pipes that woke him this morning, and the more pressing annoyance of no water running to the Palace.
"I just made a Jawa's day," you say flatly, "And you know it."
"We can't fix the part?"
"That was the fixed part," you mutter as you pry your goggles up and settle them along your brow. Tugging your white face covering down, you swipe at the sweat along your upper lip, "Jabba was paying for some of the most expensive moisture harvesters on the market — this is an early model of Pretormin Enviromental's luxury unit. If you can find replacement parts, they're ridiculously expensive. I saw vendors on the Holonet calling this model antique."
He listens intently, tilting his visor to watch you tuck your face away again. "I'm guessing expensive isn't really in the budget?"
You — rather dramatically — slap the white, durasteel chamber door shut with an irritated scoff. "Trust me, Boba tried. I told him I'd strangle him with my own two hands if I found out he spent a hundred thousand credits on a coolant bar, though. Fennec backed me up on that one."
Din scoffs. Boba, it seems, is dealing with your persistent sense of frugalness well. Recycle, repair, reuse. As long as Din's known you, you've possessed an uncanny ability to make an inch go a mile. You've always blamed it on your years spent in the Rebellion, and the need to make a little go a long way for the greater good.
You're definitely exemplary at it.
"Any cross-compatibility with other models?"
"Some — if I can get my hands on one of the newer Avantech coolant bars, I'm convinced I can make it work."
Din stands. He dusts off his armored knees, then offers a gloved hand. You take it and mirror his earlier action. He follows your lead, matching your strides as you amble back to the lower entrance of the Palace. There's a tug in his chest at the way you bound ahead, then turn on your heel and swagger backward into the looming shade of the structure.
"Did you miss this?" you say with a smile sweeter than star-cherries.
"You?" he says with enough honesty to feed you for a day, "More than anything."
Your sucker-punched smile is hidden in a bashful reel of your head. You shake it, laugh, and cross your arms as you walk ahead. Din feels the boyish crush of his affection spark at the gesture. He likes making you shy. It's... cute.
"I meant the constant repairs—"
"Right," Din smirks beneath his helmet as you walk beneath the heavy, durasteel gate that hangs open enough to grant the both of you passage. There's a nice breeze, and you roll your shoulders a little in the comfort of the shade. He's watching you, admiring, "Of course."
You can hear the heady tone in his words, and you can't help the way your lips twist into an enamored little smile. It's the sort you try to wrestle away. But, as you unwrap your face and hang the linen around your neck, you can't do much to hide the smile. So, you throw it his way.
Din eats it right up.
It's all the consent he needs.
You hop up on a supply crate just inside the garage — the sun is still bright on the dunes outside, and you catch the gleam off Din's armor. Bracing your palms behind you, you lean back on your arms and settle your legs apart. The Mandalorian sidles up to you slowly, intent on admiring. His thumbs are looped onto his belt, and his beskar rings quietly with each step. That visor glints and you hold his gaze.
Over the last week, he feels like he's been making up for lost time. A year's worth, if he's exact. He lets himself get swept into these dizzying little moments — ones where he's contentedly drowning in the need to kiss you. He's dreamed about these little moments in-between the gutwrenching reality of loneliness. He's woken to the cold, empty hum of space with a dream torn from his head and your taste on his tongue.
He steps between your legs. You swing your boots. You tilt your head, and Din does the same.
"What?" you ask coyly, "Something on my face?"
"No," he says quietly; his vocalizer crackles as he bends down and nudges his helmet against your forehead, "Just feeling a little... distracted."
"Yea?" you say, trying to peer through the black of the visor glass and get a look at his eyes. Your voice is playful, "It must be the sweat, really makes me glow."
He laughs — a rare little thing that's punctuated by his helmet ducking.
It's a rumble. It's warm.
He takes another step closer and his knees knock the supply crate. The cool breeze comes off the dunes and hits your skin and you can feel a wave of relieved goosebumps rise. The heat isn't so bad here, but Din holds a different sort of heat. You can feel it through his gloves when he lays them atop your legs. The thin linen of your pants bunches when he kneads the curve of your thighs.
You lean forward a little bit more; your smile is caught, and Din doesn't utter a word of complaint when you fit a hand and reach for the bottom of his helmet.
You know there are rules in moments like these — so you nudge the edge far enough up his face that you can see the wry smirk on his lips. He doesn't give you long to admire before he's moving to press a slow, drawn-out kiss to your mouth.
It's the sort that winds you along, the sort that has you chasing his shifting weight. Back and forward and up. You crane your neck as he tilts his chin — all the while holding the beskar helm. His boots scuffle in the sand, his hands move to squeeze your thighs again, and Din makes a soft appreciative sound with you nip his bottom lip. It's a lovely little noise. One he tries to cover with a well-timed inhale.
You're smirking against his mouth, and the Mandalorian has to ignore his own precarious sense of ardor. In moments like these, he's wholly consumed by you — burning up in your atmosphere as you sigh and bow and bend and cling.
The open-mouthed kiss is hot and heavy as you pliably engage in this embrace with him — it stokes a fire in your abdomen. Like the burn of good wine, the sort that stains your mouth and makes the world spin. Din has a habit of doing that to you.
His hands move to your hips when your legs tighten around his waist. Your boots slot against the sides of his knees. Gloved fingers crawl to gain any purchase, to urge you closer. Your free hand then roots itself to the flat plate of beskar across his heart.
The kiss now is messier now, a little less chaste — and entirely the kind that has Din Djarin struggling to remind himself of his surroundings. You're no better, not when he pants against your lips and mutters your name and kisses you again like you own some worshipful piece of his heart.
Admittedly, this small little interlude has him achingly hard.
It's no better when you tug on his beskar chest plate to urge him closer, to let him loom over you on the crate and nearly pin you down flat. You lean back on your elbows, jaw stretching to keep him locked in the bruising kiss. Your legs latch around him a little tighter, and you melt into the feeling of one hand cradling your back. The other finds the underside of your thigh. He gives himself leverage, hiking your hip up enough that you can feel him pressing hot and hard between the juncture in your legs.
"Din—"
"I take it repairs went well, then?"
Boba's voice sends you both scattering apart so fast, you're shocked you don't fall right off the supply crate. You reel backward, head snapping in shock at the supply entrance where Boba Fett is looming — thank the light side he has his helmet on. You can't bear to look him in the eye.
And Din is no better. He's can't face Boba. Not with the state of himself. So, he faces the dunes, both hands on his hips, with his helmet bowed towards the ground. Din looks like he's considering flying out and finding the nearest Sarlacc Pit to launch himself into — and you're no better. Not as you sit yourself up, clear your throat, and slide down from the supply crate.
Fett sounds amused. You know the smile. Somehow it's almost fatherly. "Is that a yes?"
"Uh, no—"
"No?" comes the voice of Fennec as she ambles down the stairwell behind Boba, only to pause at the disheveled sight of both you and Din. One dark brow raises slowly, and her eyes flick between you and the Mandalorian who is shifting from boot to boot.
"No, we..." your voice trails off as you swallow thickly, "We got distracted."
With that, there are scoffs from the two — but thankfully no more questions. Only a proud clap on Din's shoulder as Boba passes, and a questioning squint from Fennec.
Din tosses you a look over his shoulder. Really?
You grit out an apologetic smile.
Din promises himself that next time, there won't be any interruptions.
[ 𝐇𝐔𝐆 ] with our husband, our lovely husband, din djarin
✶ ——— REUNION ; d.d.
summary: din comes back to tatooine, and you both have tender confessions to share after nearly a year apart
pairing: din djarin x gn!reader, friends-to-lovers
warnings: bro i made myself emotional with this, fluff and comfort, a little angst, and a rlly fun make-out with din
a/n: it's like 2019, i am back writing for din again like a starved woman — enjoy some mechanic!reader content that i've alluded to in the past, but with a dash of OH HI YOU'RE BACK. the beautiful gif is by @hayden-christensen from this stunning set that made me sit at my desk and like the lisa simpson meme. you know the one.
"There's someone you'll probably want to see."
Fennec looks cunning when she says it, and she goes so far as to toss him a smirk over her shoulder as she saunters down towards the lower level of the Palace.
Din's footfalls falter momentarily.
Before he can even twist his frown away and grit out a follow-up question, he hears your voice.
Your voice.
Fennec can't see Din Djarin's eyes, but she can interpret the look. The well-kept expression behind the mask of beskar? That's surprise. The tension in his shoulders tells her enough. It's apprehensiveness that slows his steps. It's yearning that twitches in his fingers.
"I thought you said you were the best mechanic in the Rebellion—" comes a voice, far off in the deep cistern of a hangar.
"One," comes your voice, anointed with a grunt of disproval, "I never said that. Two, that's a hell of a lot of mouth coming from the kid who asked for my help—"
At your jest, there's a quiet clamor of laughter.
Fennec watches Din as the two hunters circle around the Slave I; her warm eyes are crinkled at the corners. It's a sense of satisfaction that's settled across her face. The soft, tender promise of this reunion... A non-promise in a swirling void of chaos. Fennec's gloved hand skims the bow in the ship's hull as she follows — and she waits in the wings when Din finally lays his eyes on you.
It's been months.
Nearly a year.
And you're here.
In truth, you'd never left.
You're under a... scooter? A colorful little speeder sits neatly on jacks, and you're on your back — rag and wrench in hand. He can see the bare skin of your arms, smeared with grease, and thick gloves that crawl up your wrist. Your boots scuffle a bit as you roll father back and let you a little curse.
"Seriously, what did you think would happen?" you huff haughtily, "The propulsion vents on this model aren't built for finer grit dune sand—"
You're lecturing a gaggle of teens. Scrappy, amused teens that are hanging on your every word — even when you raise a hand and waggle your wrench in frustration. They laugh a little, and Din feels gutted with a deep pang of longing. The same sort he's been wrestling with for the last year. But, this time, you're right here.
He's hardly put together that he's been standing there, a few meters from you, for a few seconds. Not until one of the teens, one with warm skin and a cyberized orbital implant, coughs.
"We have a guest," Fennec projects, spurring you to pause.
Easily, you wheel yourself out.
Sitting up is the easy part. Wrangling your goggles off your face, and smearing the sweat from your cheek isn't as easy, but it's habit by now. Days and days spent doing just this — not that you can complain. Fixing helps. Keeps you busy. Has you feeling useful. Hell, even that is an easy realization to come to.
All that is certainly easier than the jarring actualization that Din Djarin is standing right in front of you.
Din.
It's been months.
Nearly a year.
And he's here.
Like he never left.
In the same glittering, beautiful beskar — and you can see your breath robbed from your lungs in the reflection. Your wrench meets the pavement of the hangar, and you forget about any attempt at grace.
Scrambling up, his name is like a petal on your tongue. Its springtime in his heart and Din is moving before he can remind himself to slow down. Din is half-ready for the planetary impact brought about by your orbit colliding with his — in a dizzying spell of limbs and gravity. The collision is as gentle as a year of longing can be — not nearly as brutal as the nights spent alone, not nearly as hollow as the ache of forgetting the sound of someone's voice.
"Din."
He knows — deep in his heart — he's never heard his name said sweeter. Maybe it's the horrible, lonely circumstance. Or, maybe it's the fact you've wound your arms around his neck and you're proving him wrong, that he hadn't lost you when he left this planet on the promise of duty-owed. When he left you.
You can feel his gloves wind themselves tightly into the back of your mechanic's jumpsuit. You nearly trip as you push yourself up onto the tips of your boots and cling — hardly the reaction you'd rehearse in your head a thousand times. No, no you promised yourself you'd be tangibly cool, perfectly calm.
Truth be told, you're far from it.
You pull back, gloved finding the curved sides of his helm as you settle back down and look him over. An inspection, a breathless one, that's halted with the deliberate press of his helmet to your forehead. It's cool. Smooth. And his hands, you realize, have moved to hold your shoulders steady. To follow the curve of your arms, and to settle along your jaw.
It's a quiet reunion.
One that's watched by an audience, you remember, when Skad pointedly clears his throat and delivers a good-natured jab.
"I take it you two 'ave met, then?"
Din wishes you wouldn't pull away — not until he's finished the thankful prayer on his tongue. His hands fall to yours, and you squeeze them tightly when you turn your cheek. The entire time, he's watching you. Assessing the change. You've started wearing your hair in a new way. There's a wrinkle, between your brow, he doesn't remember being there before. He notes a new scar along the curve of your clavicle.
The entire time he's welcomed by the great Daimyo and his enclave of collected followers, his attention remains on the one person he's been unable to push from his thoughts. Fennec supposes there's something rather romantic about that — and even though she can't be sure that T-visor is trained on you the entire time, she knows well enough.
Din notes a litter of new scars along your knuckles.
During dinner, you try to keep your tender-mouthed yearning quiet. You have a hundred questions for him — but bide your time picking out the best parts of the prepared meal to bring to his quarters after. You plate fruit and meat and little bits of love carved right from your rib. You sit there, flicking up your gaze to find his attending look each time. It makes your heart feel heavy, and so you pile on more sweetsalt berries to his plate.
Laughter comes and goes as do the questions about his armor, conversations about the current politics, and full-bellied lull of a Tatooine evening. Somewhere, a balcony curtain billows — and the three moons hang warm and pink in the sky.
"I trust you can show our guest his living arrangements."
Boba's eyes are kind.
When you stand, gathered plate in hand, there are few questions — just heavy, tender looks from the Daimyo and his Master Assassin. Just a strong hand planted warmly on Din's shoulder in passing. A smile, even, from Fennec to you.
Din is quiet as he follows. The quiet tinker of beskar and the cool breeze of the evening air is all there is — even when you nudge open the door to his quarters. It's one of larger rooms, with a balcony and a rotunda and a bed big enough for a Hutt. It's not entirely dissimilar from your own arrangements.
As you set Din's dinner down on the table near the balcony, he speaks. The door slides shut with a hiss, and you steal a berry to tide over your yearning.
"I thought you'd be angry with me."
You flick your eyes to him. He's stopped in the center of the room. The sunset has settled into the glimmering curves of his armor, and you can't help but feel your heart tighten at the words.
"I was."
Din inhales.
Your expression is solid — but not cruel.
"For a while," you continue, "But, I'm not anymore."
"Why?" he asks in a quiet breath. It sounds far away through the helmet's vocalizer. Like a glacial rift tearing itself apart.
You frown — and almost immediately Din wishes he could take the question back. He watches you reach for another berry, and then you drift away from the balcony. Back to the center of the room, back towards him. You step around him for a second, like a star in orbit. Somehow, you find his eyes beneath the visor. He's always been struck dumb by your uncanny ability to do it. He's not sure if you know, but you've done it. The eye contact he so dreads, until it's you.
And then he feels home.
Like he never left.
You push the berry past your lips and shrug. You drop his gaze, and you turn your cheek towards the rising moons.
"Did you find them?"
"Yes," you're deflecting — and Din can play the game just as well, "I thought you said you were going to go home."
Suddenly, you look panicked.
How do you tell him he was home all along?
Your mouth goes dry, and you shrug away the burn of anxiousness.
You promised yourself you'd be honest with him if you ever saw him again — you promised yourself you'd ask him to never leave again, to let you stay by his side no matter the risk. No matter the circumstance. You promised yourself night after night that someday you'd see Din Djarin again and tell him exactly how you felt.
Your eyes are wide. The wrinkle he noticed before is back. He realizes it's one born out of worry.
"I..." your words slip away. You blink, then shake your head, "I was going to. Then, I realized some things."
Din wishes someone would take the dark saber and carve his heart out. It's the tension, the fear of admitting what you both know — and the edge of fear that perhaps it's not shared.
His voice is raspy. He takes a leap.
Quietly, he steps forward with his confession. "I should have never left."
You shake your head. "We both know you had to."
"They exiled me," he says, then, as he stands over you in the moonlight; Din's words are heavy and they sink into your heart, "And I had no one. All I did was think of you, every night I was gone."
"Exile," you breathe; you don't like the sound. You try to distract yourself with it, and not the crushing cosmos of feelings swirling in your chest at his pretty admittances.
"And then, I thought I'd come back here," Din says with an edge of fear, "And you'd be gone. And I'd never see you again."
You can feel the lump in your throat. You wish you had more of the spotcha at dinner. It would have given you enough of an edge to compose yourself, and not bow into Din the moment he touched you. Your cheek meets the smooth plate of his chest piece when he touches your hand, and you bend into an embrace that surmises a year's worth of unspoken feelings.
"I missed you," he says as his arms wrap themselves tightly around your shoulders, "I'm sorry I ever left you."
"I'm sorry I agreed to it, to part ways," you laugh shakily as you settle your chin on the lip of the beskar, "It was the worst mistake I ever made—"
His gloves hands are cool against your cheeks.
Again, with fluttering lashes, you find his eyes beneath the visor.
There are a lot of things being said between the words, and Din feels himself settling into them. You've relaxed — gone nearly pliable in his hands as you touch his knuckles with your own calloused fingers.
"Exile?" you ask mournfully after a moment of content quiet as you rub the curve of his thumb.
Din's gaze falters. "For showing my face."
Hurt flicks across your face. You know he could have lied. He could have told the Clan that no, he hadn't. But, Din Djarin is a good man — and in his truth, he'd bore the brunt of his punishment.
"But," he says after a moment, "I find myself... bargaining."
"Bargaining?" you ask with a wry look, one half-etched with confusion and half with amusement.
"I'd bear the weight of a thousand exiles if it meant I could kiss you."
Oh.
Oh.
There he goes again, robbing you of breath — this time with words so soft and honest that you can hardly find the right reaction; and it worsens, when a gloved hand moves to tip the lip of his helmet back and the beskar bends the light. Blues and pinks and orange flicker along the rotunda, and you watch greedily as the warm skin of throat, of chin, of lips appear.
He's slow — tentative. The gap is closed with steady hesitancy that meets in an exceedingly gentle press of the lips. Your nose slots next to his, chin tilting, and you can't help the way you slip into bliss at the dreamed touch.
You hardly notice that the beskar falls to the floor when he really kisses you — you hardly hear the bell-like sound that rings in a year worth of want. Can anyone blame you? When a Mandalorian bends his creed to kiss you, soften his war-hardened hands to cradle you? You swear you'll never be able to love again, at this moment, and the Mand'alor holds not only the dark saber in his hand but your heart.
When he draws himself, slowly, away from your kiss, you keep your eyes shut firmly. The sort of thing you'd always negotiated when you'd first started feeling these things for him, back when you'd only been an impromptu live-in mechanic for the Razor Crest.
You can feel his smile tickle your cheek after a moment of quiet. Your own smile is big. Din, sans his helmet, huffs a little laugh from his nose. It's a nasally sound, a warm one. You know he's smiling now.
"I can save you exile," your lashes kiss your cheeks as you keep your eyes firmly shut, "I promise, I'm good at not looking."
You had, after all, spent nearly a year and a half aboard that small freighter playing this exact game — in tight living quarters with a Mandalorian meant snapping eyes shut at a moment's notice.
Then, a gloved hand cradles your face as he presses a series of kisses to your cheek. Over and over. Each is punctuated with a little bit more force than the next. And on the last, he keeps his nose to your cheek as he muffles a laugh. His voice is warm against your ear.
"Just open your eyes," he says lowly, "Before I offer marriage as an alternative."
You laugh and swat at his chest. But, it has you cracking one eye open.
MARVEL IN 2021
WandaVision ☆ The Falcon and the Winter Soldier
Loki ☆ Black Widow
What if…? ☆ Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings
Venom: Let There Be Carnage ☆ Eternals
Hawkeye ☆ Spider-Man: No Way Home
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