#111th

This is not finished, just me playing in Procreate with Suru, another clone OC of mine who lost his leg and eyes during the clone wars. He's a bit prematurely grey, but you can blame his 2 kids for that.

;   —   burnt   |   chief medical officer grim

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." 

Today Bhutan celebrate the 111th anniversary of the coronation of their first king. Let's take a moment to appreciate their striking flag.

c.m.o grim / medic!reader  ;   AWAKE

a/n: this was accidentally a bit angsty and i do not feel sorry one single bit. here’s our trash boy, our lil monster man!!!!! grimmy boy. grimothy. a king.

There’s someone kicking you.

I mean, not hard but definitely not gently and it’s for sure enough to annoy you right out of the up-right slumber you’d managed to fall into — all while crammed between the medical supply crates around the side of the main trauma tent. Hey, the durasteel was cool and the nights on Felucia were almost as unbearably hot as the days. 

You grumble, inhaling sharply at the sudden flash of a head-lamp, and wave away the intrusion of bright light with a bark of protest.

“Th’ hell?”

“You awake?”

You know the voice. I mean — his voice is like his brother’s, of course, but there’s that typical sardonic dip, a crescendo of sarcasm. You meet it with a stubborn scowl.

Grim, the Chief Medical Officer of the 111th, is the one waving his helmet’s head-lamp in your eyes. 

“Am now.”

“Good,” he offers a gloved hand, “Thought you might have died on me.”

You grumble at the offer, rubbing your eyes. Was it so bad you’d fallen asleep after a twelve-hour shift in the grueling humidity? There was a spike in injuries today, no doubt from clashes along the Western line as the 111th moved to push forward and eradicate the encampments of Separatists lingering outside of civilian towns.  

“Woulda been a nice vacation from this.”

“Don’t joke,” Grim says as you take his hand and he hauls you up, “You’re the only thing keepin’ me sane around here, sweets... Well — you and the shit-for-piss caf that Fennec manages to brew from rations.”

You snort. He nudges you with his shoulder and muscles his helmet off. His hair, an ink-colored mop, springs from his helmet as he cards a gloved hand through his hair. It’s unruly, like him, and you can see the exhaustion in the lines of his face — the tattoos almost hide it, but you know him. You know when Grim is at his limit.

He’s close. There’s a jitter in his fingers. Before you’d attribute it to a stim high, but he’s kicked that habit. Did a few deployments ago. No, this is worry. Nerves. 

There’s a firefight on a distant hill.

Slowly, Grim exhales. 

“It’s gonna be a long night.”

ct-1889 “grim” / nuetral!reader  ;  god i love this cheeky bastard. have a lil blurb. grim content makes me SO HAPPY.

“It’s a simple question, really.”

You don’t think you can possibly roll your eyes harder.

You’re busy dropping a shot of Alderaani fire whiskey into a shaker with ice and giving it a strong stir — busy doing your job, which this specific (and very persistent) trooper is seeming to ignore.

Grim. He’s one of the 111th boys. A medic. He’s got tattoos that line his eyes and jaw and lips — painted up to look more like an anatomical model of a skull than anything. There’s Aurebesh on his temple, too. And a nose ring. And a glimmer of charming mischief that dances in his dark, brown eyes. 

"Grim,” you sigh, moving to grab a thin, crystalline glass from the rack behind you, “I’m busy.”

"Mhm,” he nods, leaning in over the pounding bass of 79′s usual clamor. His composite armor is decorated in scratches, adorned in a deep, inky, black paint. There are others bearing the same color as him fleeting about. Seems like the entire 111th was back on leave. Grim drums his gloved knuckles on the bar, “And I’’m not gonna leave ‘til I hear your say it, sweets.”

You shoot him a look.

There’s a smile there. Grim raises his brows. He’s smirking.

“C’mon,” he chirps, jutting his chin out as a wolfish smile spreads across his face, “You in love with me yet, or what?”

You pause, pouring the glass and holding his gaze level. 

With good humor, you wink. You scoop the glass up, and you shake your head.

“... Gettin’ there, Grim. I’m gettin’ there.”

OH BOY DO I. 

the boys actually have an entire tag.

but, for those who are new or wanted a refresher:

lucky, resident idiot, is not lucky. best friend is spades.

spades, the level headed one, is lucky. him and lucky are tied to the hip.

shade, our sniper. the balance to grim. broody. has a massive scar across his eye from a volley shot. funny, but murderous.

chief medical officer grim, the medic who is consistently irritated – snark king with skull face tatts. blood is straight stims and caf. a one-man comedy show. truly iconic.

smokeshow, the blonde demolition expert who lives up to his name by wooing every member of the waitstaff at 79’s. oh, you have a gaping maw and tentacles? cool he still wants to smash

jockey, the only ranger-pilot any of these idiots trust. has a droid, M8. he’s a sunshine boy. illegally races every now and again.

hauler, big boy with the razor canon and the big arms. gentle giant.

lt. fennec, literally the only other brain cell in the squad aside from nyx, by-the-book and emotional support lt to the local idiots. does audio erotica. is good at it.

commander nyx, please he’s so tired. he just wants to retire and be a fucking farmer

then, there’s the recent reveal of talon’s smaller, sister squadron wing squad:

2nd. lt. razor, silver hair, silver eyes, he’s got a whole color scheme going on. secretly feeds information to clone rights activist groups on coruscant. politically active, incredibly cold.

medic kilo, the man with the synthetic jaw says hello! wing’s medic, level-headed, dyes everyone’s hair.

croc, war criminal. bad. avoid at all costs.