Just a scratch - Din Djarin x Reader drabble
Summary: Life as the assistant in a droid-operated doctor’s office isn't eventful. That is, unless a certain frequent visitor ends up in your capable hands again. This time he’s in for a bit more than just some bacta Warnings: 18+ content, MDNI! brief description of wounds, some Mando’a (translation at the end), no face reveal (sorry!), allusion to sexytime A/N: This was fun! This little drabble is for @janaispunk’s 1500 follower celebration. The prompt was “neck kisses” and our boy Din – I decided to play around with a younger Din and the prompt basically screamed for an inner conflict about his oath (His age isn't mentioned but in my head he's in his 20s here) Fun fact, the actual fic part is exactly 1500 words. Unbeta'd, be nice 🙏
It is a slow day today, boring even.
So boring that you decide to clean the reception, dust off the high-shine furniture while listening to the low hum of all the equipment in the adjacent room. Your name badge rustles with every swipe of your arm. The light above you flickers. It is late in the evening, close to the end of your shift.
To be quite frank, you like it like this.
Empty. Peaceful. Tranquil.
Working in a doctor’s office, you’re regularly presented with emergencies that drain your energy quickly. Yes, the actual healing is mostly done by droids, but you occasionally have to lend a hand. Some people don’t trust droids. Or they are scared so you end up taking care of them.
You understand to a degree. Sometimes the ‘doctor’ malfunctions and it’s your job to make sure it doesn’t harm the patients. And – because of your regular maintenance, you’d like to think – nothing has ever happened since you started your job here. Basically you are both a mechanic and the receptionist. And, well, the healer for certain patients that under no circumstance want a droid near them.
Such as the Mandalorian who has visited the office quite often now. In fact, you’re sure he deliberately stays close to the space port just to make sure he can see you when he is injured.
He never really talks much until you start your process. He likes to tell you about where his injuries come from. He’s a bounty hunter, that much you have figured out by yourself. Most of his wounds aren’t threatening to his health, scratches, bruises, an occasional concussion.
Today is no different. Just as you are about to take off your name tag, the door opens and he stumbles in. You’re familiar with the sound of his steps and take no time to get the med droid out of the exam room.
He plops down on the table and starts removing his cape.
“Well, what do we have this time?”
You don’t even need an answer. The hole ripped into the flight suit and the dark stain on his shoulder says enough. “Got bitten,” he states. With your head slightly tilted, you ask “You got bitten?” The helmet halts for a second, staring at you. He said what he said.
“May I?” you ask, offering a hand in taking off the metal plates that have to come off before you can tend to his wound. He nods and you carefully detach the shoulder plates. He hisses underneath the helmet. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. Placing the armor parts gently on the table next to him, you watch him take his gloves off. The gauntlets follow, as does the chest plate. His fingers feel for the closure of his vest. “Let me get some Bacta while you’re busy,” you stumble when you realize you’ve been staring at him for a while.
“I need you to take the shirt off as well…” you add as you’re already halfway in the storage to get equipment and hide your blushed cheeks. Technically there is enough Bacta in the exam room, but you know he needs privacy.
The topic of his creed has come up before – when you’ve been treating him for the first time. He had suffered a concussion and you wanted to check his head, but ultimately he refused and explained why. You didn’t understand then, you don’t now, but you don’t have to. You’re just here to make sure he isn’t dying, right?
When you return, he sits there in all his glory. Broad shoulders, a toned back, a slender waist and that damn helmet on his head. Tan, freckled skin and, rather pleasant to see, there’s no bruises on him this time. You’ve seen it all. The scars, bruises, new, old; scratches, cuts, blaster wounds. But a bite? That’s new.
With a hand on his wounded shoulder, you take out a small light to see if the wound shows any signs of infection. “I know we usually have a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ agreement but I have to break that this time. How? And was that a bounty?” Again, he hisses as your fingers graze the skin, avoiding your touch by arching his back. “Yes,” he replies. What else would it have been, realistically? An animal? Not here. And certainly not with a bite wound up that high. Or this is a rather unfortunate bedroom accident.
You take the Bacta and spray it on the bite mark. It’s not too deep luckily. Neither has it hit any larger blood vessel nor are his precious muscles at risk. It probably hurts a lot, but he is used to pain. “Not a human, of course,” he says as the spray starts closing the little marks the teeth of the quarry have left in his flesh. With a damp wipe you wash away the blood on his shoulder, far enough away from the wound that he shouldn’t wince again. But he does. “Fierce warrior, huh? Is it that painful?” You half-mock, but your concern still audible underneath. This isn’t a wound that should hurt. Judging by his behavior, it’s uncomfortable.
“It’s not. It’s just … you” “Me?” You take a step back to look into that black visor. Sometimes you wonder how he looks like underneath it. If his face is as pretty as you’ve imagined. “I–” he stammers. “I’m not used to being touched. Not so close to the helmet.”
“Oh,” you let out. It’s not loud by any means but he’s close, so he hears it anyway. “Do you want to wipe your blood off of yourself?” You offer the cloth with an outreached arm. He hesitates, staring at the stained fabric you’re holding towards him. The pain in his shoulder slowly dissipates and the throbbing leaves. “N-no,” he finally says. His voice is low, breathy. You can clearly see that his breathing is more labored. Is he anxious?
The hand with the rag slowly retreats and you take a moment to process what he says. “Do you want me to–” He nods, so you continue wiping away the blood. The holes in his skin have closed up and now only a set of pink little spots remains. His blood has traveled far down his back and you gulp before slowly moving down with your hand. His skin is warm and you can’t deny that there is suddenly a weird tension between you two. He sits here, watching you touch his exposed skin. You’ve done it before but never so close to his neck. Is he sensitive? As the side of your hand brushes against his neck, he flinches. You do it again and the helmet turns to face you. For a few seconds you stare at each other.
You’re standing in between his knees, a respectful distance between your bodies otherwise. “I would’ve never guessed that,” you take your unoccupied hand and let your fingertips wander over the other side of his neck. He shivers and exhales sharply.
He leans into your touch. The beat of his heart is visible, a vein pulsing underneath your index. “Don’t,” he hushes. Don’t what?
You halt the movement of both of your hands. He hesitantly extends one arm and rests his hand on your waist. First you expect him to push you away, but rather than that – he pulls you closer. He straightens his back until you’re almost eye to eye. You know he’s broad, but being so close to him made that abundantly clear.
“Don’t stop,” he pleas. The softness in his voice could melt your heart. The cloth falls onto the table behind him, squelching upon impact with the cold metal surface. Both your hands rest on his skin, drawing small circles on his neck.
“Can I take that as confirmation you’ve been staying close on purpose?” Again, he nods. “I hope you’re not getting injured on purpose though,” you say with a smirk. A single chuckle emits from underneath the helmet. “I’m not, not any more at least.” you shake your head in amusement. “Could’ve just said something. Ask me out or something.” “And what would we do? I can’t take that helmet off.”
I have an idea.
Leaning forward, you stroke over his shoulders and down his arms, making way for your lips to brush his shoulder. “Osik,” he curses under his breath. You’ve heard him curse in Mando’a before so your smirk just grows. Your lips travel up his shoulder, until they finally reach his neck. “I mean,” you talk in between kisses, feeling him melt against your chest. “I know something we could do that doesn’t necessarily need the helmet to come off.” On your life, you swear you hear him whimper. The battle-hardened Mandalorian whimpers. Because you offer what he probably has been waiting for for a while now.
“Would you like that?” You tease. His hand travels down your waist. As it ends by your hip, his second hand joins. “Yeah.”
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Osik – shit
