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[screamingintothestarss]

CAROL?!?!?!??? i am so honored that you took the time to read AND review my fic! it was such a pleasure to get the notification that you had reblogged my post, i was squealing!

additionally, saying that my writing moved you is probably one of the highest compliments i've ever gotten. i try my best to write intentionally and impactfully to really get into the meat of human emotion so that it feels real and relatable for the reader, so thank you from the bottom of my heart for this! i feel like I'm doing something right, haha.

i'm definitely motivated to keep improving on my writing now! thank you again for the time you took to break everything down 💙

dark blue

summary: you’re hurting, and you don’t know if you can let hunter in

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: mature (17+)

warnings: mentions of drinking and alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of vomiting, angst, hurt with comfort, heavy feelings, kissing, non-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy, mature themes in general, mutual pining, swearing, reader kinda sucks with emotions

word count: 3.9k

notes: bone apple teeth! dies

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Your arm hangs over the tub's porcelain edge, beads of water streaking down the skin like rain. Bubbles and foam have long dissolved, yet you remain uncomfortably unmoving, eyes waterlogged and heavy. You don’t know how long you’ve been submerged, your skin beginning to prune and wrinkle much like your demeanor tonight. The weight of your loathing pulls down on your eyes, and you let them slip closed. 

Pulsing lights, loud music, and a mass of writhing bodies replay under your eyelids. Your stomach sours, and the feeling claws up your throat like the drink you tossed back two hours ago. A drunken holo, strong hands, and the heady scent of him remind you of why you’re even here. You sink further down into the tub, hoping that somehow the water will wash away your guilt.

You hiss as a raw ankle brushes along the bottom; you’d figured those strappy heels weren’t a good idea, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. You had a good time, you think. You had a good time, but the tears streaming down your face held their own narrative. You let out a choked sob, but before you can consider pulling it together, a gentle knock at the door has you reeling.

“Are you okay?” Hunter’s voice comes through muffled from behind the door. His tone is dripping with worry, and the knot in your stomach tightens. 

Are you okay? The question hangs over your head like a forbidden fruit, daring you to bite. You want to sink your teeth in and spill your guts–to tell him that you're not okay and that you need him, that you want-

He calls your name, and you hear his hand settling on the door's console. His concern nearly breaks your heart.

A scratchy "fine" is all you can muster. You're trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, all jagged and misshapen, but your hands are beginning to bleed. 

You can still feel him hovering behind the door, the air heavy enough to cut through. You can’t trust yourself to say anything else. 

He knows he’s hovering; he knows that you know he’s hovering. He shouldn’t be, though. He should be giving you the space you need right now, not rolling a question in between his teeth. He swallows it, choosing to leave you be, and pads back over into the living room.

A holomovie plays on the television, but he pays it no mind. 

I'm losing it, he thinks, brown-grey eyes flitting towards the bathroom door every few seconds. His hands unconsciously twirl a pen in between deft fingers, senses on the cusp of overload. Normally the thought of you filled him with something warm and saccharine, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. But now, with you being in the state that you're in, he can't help but feel prickly and uncomfortable. 

He'd been asleep when he got the call, eyes glossed over, squinting over a blue comlink. Your slurred voice and drunken divulgences had him vertiginous, chest cracking open and hands all clammy. You hadn't spoken to each other since the misunderstanding, as you had put it, from two weeks ago. You said that you wanted your space, and he respected that. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to just hold you. He's staring at the door, he realizes, unconsciously listening for any sign of you. 

He's your Jedi Knight; your protector. Without a doubt, he'd go to war for you, hands all filthy and bloodied and split if it meant yours could remain clean. 

It was also why he felt like utter shit when he pulled up to the bar to see you slumped over inside a comm booth. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Fuck," he breathes, clambering out of his speeder and making his way to you. He swears he's never moved faster in his life, the cuffs of his jeans dampening from each wet slap of his boots on the pavement. He approaches the glass doors, and his eyes focus on your watery form. The tendons in his heart snap. 

Your face is ruddy and sticky with sweat, strands of hair clinging to your forehead like a halo. A pretty dress is smattered with stains, no doubt from a drink, or drinks, that you'd likely spilled on yourself. Tears streak your face, taking what was left of your makeup with them.

You're a mess.

Without hesitation, he hooks his arm under your knees and uses the other to support your back. He shifts on his weight, and your cheek lazily slumps against his firm chest.

"I've got you," he breathes. "I've got you." 

His steps are careful, calculated. Like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he cradles you with reverence. He lays you down gently in the backseat, sliding his jacket down strong arms and draping it over your pretty figure. Calloused fingers brush away the wisps of hair stuck to your face, and you begin to stir.

Your head lolls to the side, and a choked groan rolls out of your throat. You feel like a hammer is cracking down against your skull, a poisonous rhythm that has you almost spilling the contents of tonight on rubber floor liner. 

Hunter scrambles to the middle console, plucking a bottle from the cupholder. You feel a familiar hand on your arm, calm and inviting; the opposite of how you're feeling right now. His warmth is the eye of your storm, and you're craving more. 

"Hey," he rasps, his timbre clattering around in your ears, replacing the loud thump thump thumping of your heart. It's gentle and sweet, and your bleary eyes find his amidst a dark sky and flashing lights. 

"Hunt..." is all you can say, the word clawing its way through your teeth. 

A strong hand slides in between your shoulder blades, and slowly sits you up. The bottle of something is pressed to your lips, and you part them. The liquid runs down your throat; an oasis in a desert, it brings you back to life. 

"I'm gonna take us home, okay?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Home. Even inebriated, his words had nearly knocked you flat on your ass. This wasn't your home, it was his. You were sitting in his bathtub, in his bathroom: in his home. 

He opened himself up to you in ways you didn't think possible; you held the keys to his heart, locked the door, and ran. 

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him too. He was so sure, so hopeful that the stars had aligned it for you both. He was so sure that your souls had woven themselves together, an intricate tapestry of adoration and understanding no saber could cut through. Maybe the seams weren't strong enough.

Your watery reflection stares back at you, and your lungs constrict.

You can't do this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You open the door, a cloud of hot steam following you as you pad towards the living room. Hunter had given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts to wear, and the fabric clings awkwardly to your frame.

Hunter sits on the sofa, pretending to watch the TV. 

"Didn't know you had a thing for fixer-uppers," you tease. Your heart's not in it, but you want to break through the tension somehow. You miss the way he takes a breath before facing you.

You're fully clothed, yet you feel so naked in front of him. You want to cover up, throwing a flustered “Get out!” over your shoulder whilst you find something to conceal your vulnerability with.

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to your light. You're swallowed by his shirt and his shorts, and it all begins to feel so domestic. He can't help it, letting his mind wander into uncharted territory–a thick jungle of things said and unsaid. Maybe he could've woken up to the sight of you in it, your face squished into plush pillows, serene as ever. Maybe he could've wrapped his arms around you, bunching the fabric up to your waist, tracing the sultry curve of thigh. He'd take care of you, love you the way you needed, the way you deserved.

Maybe he could've been something more to you.

You're melting under his gaze, white-hot electricity coursing through your veins. Your mouth opens.

"I'm-"

"Hey, I-"

You both speak at the same time; your lips clamp shut, and he does the same. He stares at you, silently begging you to say something. You take the hint.

"I'm sorry." The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, the grit of your guilt spilling over. Every nerve in your body is lit ablaze, and you're too wrecked to snuff them out. 

Like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, you want to run. You're looking this way and that, arms self-soothingly folded over your torso. You rock on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do with yourself.  

He sighs, thick and heavy. "Do you know what could've happened to you?" 

The implications are all there. Maker knows what could've happened had you not dialed his number. And you knew it. 

You're quiet. You don't know what else to say; what else is there to say?

Wordlessly, he pads over to you, his familiar warmth spreading across your shoulders and leading you toward the sofa. He sits you down, and it's frustratingly gentle.

"Are you hungry?" 

"No." The word darts through your teeth quicker than you expect, and it makes you wince. 

He chuckles at that. "Liar."

You let out a small laugh through your nose, breezy and cool. He'd always been able to read you; his senses were always keen when it came to you, and you swore he knew you better than you knew yourself at times. Like some sort of omniscient deity, he could see right through you, cutting through all the weeds and all the bullshit. 

But you couldn't handle that right now.

He's in the kitchen, making a sandwich, you think. You laugh to yourself, it's tight, but the thoughts of him stumbling around in the kitchen make you a little warmer. 

He'd always been a terrible cook, fumbling around everywhere and making a mess of himself. He was like a rancor in a china shop, utter destruction following in his wake. He'd given up on trying to learn, and you'd given up on trying to teach him. 

You tentatively turn towards the open kitchen, and then you're staring. Your eyes trace over his features; like a painter studying his muse, you note every detail, every stroke of the brush you'd need to make. Deep brown eyes are hyper-focused, framed by long brown locks curling down to his shoulders, a red bandana holding it all together. A strong aquiline nose crests over a chiseled face and stubbled jaw; maker, he was beautiful. 

You assumed he was a bit of a player when you first met; a lethal combo of face and body that left a string of holo-frequencies scrawled onto sticky notes and a series of romantic escapades; and maybe you were right. He'd been in and out of bedrooms before, maybe in search of the same thing you were: but you didn't even know what that was yet. 

You got to know him, peeling back all the layers and fluff and stripping him down to the core. You realized just how wrong you had him. He was always a gentleman, a gemstone in the dirt. He never played games or messed around for the hell of it; he was real. You weren't used to that.

Maybe it's why the pool of regret in your stomach swallowed you whole tonight, leaving you with a bruised ankle and a stained dress. 

You slump against plush cushions, heart heavy and mind spasming. You're tired in every sense of the word, the gears in your head creaking to a halt; you've got no juice left. 

Hunter returns from the kitchen, handing you a homemade sandwich and a bag of chips. 

"Thank you," you tell him. You don't think you've ever been more thankful for someone. He smiles at you, and it's warm–something you'd wrap in foil and save for later.

"Of course." He says it like it's obvious. Obvious that he'd be there for you when you needed him; he always was. 

He sits beside you on the sofa stealing shy glances at your side profile, and it hurts him. It hurts knowing that you would never want him in the way that he wanted you. He'd remain on the backburner then, starting the gas and keeping you warm if that's what you wanted. 

You catch him staring at you, and you stare right back. He knew you, but you'd argue you knew him better. His eyes are trying to tell you something, and that knot in your stomach returns. 

He wants to talk about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You stare into the dark blue of the sky, cool and vast like the deep end of a pool; you want to dive in and drown in it. Stars are all smattered against the surface as if someone had flicked a paint brush against it, and you try to reach up and grab one.

"Not getting lost up there are you?" a voice says to your right, and you nearly jump ten feet in the air.

"Shit-!"

"M'sorry," Hunter laughs, and it instantly dissolves your annoyance. "Was gonna ask if you were ready to go?" His eyes flash down on you, and you're beginning to get lost in hues of brown and gold.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of cobwebs and butterflies before you answer. "Yeah," you breathe. "You made reservations, right?" "

"Yeah, ten o'clock." 

Then you're staring at each other. Something in the air shifts, and you both know it. These little moments you've had with each other were happening more often; like the steady drip of water in a bucket, you'd walked away for a second, and now it's on the brink of overflow. 

The woody scent of his cologne fries your senses, and you try to keep your eyes from shamelessly ravaging his form. 

But Hunter's unabashed, unshameful without remorse. His eyes flit up and down your curves, taking in how your dress hugs you in all the right places.  You playfully slap his arm.

"Quit that!" But you don't mean it, a smile spreading across your face like butter. 

He meets your eyes again, and he doesn't hear you call his name over the thumping of his heart. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, your line cast.

"Hunter?" His name falls from your lips again, and he's just staring; your presence alone is a siren's call, and he's about to end up floating in the depths below. 

He has to do this, he thinks. He's been waiting for the perfect time, an opportunity to give himself over to you; to tell you how you've infiltrated his very core, molding it into your shape. To tell you how often he thinks of you, his head full of sugar and cotton and everything you.

 The tick tick tick of the clock is winding down, and he's falling behind. 

"Hunt-"

"I love you!”

You're frozen. The fire lit in your belly is put out cold, and now you're left shaking. 

Fuck.

The words don't sit in your stomach right, twisting and turning and gnawing at you as they settle to the bottom. They wrap themselves around your neck and squeeze. His confession shouldn't be coming as a surprise to you; the signs were always there, big bold letters and all: I love you.

You hold onto the balcony railing in an attempt to ground yourself. A hand cools the white-hot grip you have on the metal bars.

"Are you okay?" His voice is worried–terrified, even. He fucked up. The timing was all wrong; he should've told you sooner, or later. Maybe he was being selfish, unfairly assuming your heart did rounds in your ears when you were around him. Maybe he-

"I can't do this." Your voice comes out creaky and broken, and Hunter feels his chest cave in. 

He feels awful, the kind that leaves you with cracked ribs and a broken jaw. He took a risk, diving into those dark depths, and ended up being pulled straight under. 

But he was so sure.

He does what does best; he comforts you. Large palms caress your shoulders as they begin to shake, the weight of his words settling in the gaps. 

"I'm so sorry," he's telling you, and it's so soft and sincere it has you heaving. "I'm sorry…I never meant to hurt you." 

That seals it, and you're sobbing even harder: all hot tears and a snotty nose. 

You're no stranger to hurt. You'd tried your hand at relationships before, throwing darts at the board until something stuck. You'd accounted for the grit and grime: the song and dance of trying to love someone else, except you had two left feet. Once the music stopped, you'd turn over, your partner long gone. 

And so you buried the dartboard along with everything else, packing it away into the dirt like cement, and walked away. 

And then he came along.

All charm and smolder, sweeping you off of your feet with ease. You both were like magnets; there was no push and pull, no tugging on a rope or trying to keep him tethered, he was always drawn to you. He understood you, believed in you. He introduced you to his brothers and sister, giving you a family of your own; something to always keep close to your heart. 

And you didn’t want to lose that.

Love just erodes things, in your eyes. 

“Just go.” It comes out defeated, pathetic. A boulder in your throat, you’re barely able to say the words, much less to him. You do what you do best: run away. 

He can’t be hearing you correctly. He lets go of you, much to his chagrin, and steps away. A strong jaw locks–petrified. He’d planted the seeds of you in his heart, and you’d ripped them out by the root. Your words clatter around in his head, but he reigns them in and takes a good look:

This isn’t you. 

“What’s going on?” He says it as gently as he can, like soothing a wounded animal, he doesn’t want to scare you away any more than he already has. 

You can’t look him in the eye. Bile edges on your teeth and your next words come out venomous: “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Yes, I do.

“Just leave me alone-”

Please don’t go.

“I just can’t-”

I will, for you.

Like a child learning to speak, your words trip and tumble over themselves. There’s too much to say, that grime still under your fingernails. How do you articulate two years of pain? You feel him stepping closer to you, and that gnawing urge to flee at the base of your skull chews into your brain. Rough palms curl around your arms, and he turns you around so that you’re facing him. He stares into watery red eyes and feels his heart split. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he’s far from that, but he just needs to know–to understand what all of this meant to you. But he needs to check in on you first; like he always has. 

“Tell me what’s wrong…please?” He’s pleading with you, and you feel sick. You know you’re pushing him away, culling peonies and roses, and leaving nothing but dirt. You meet his eyes: brown, gold, and gray. 

He bristles as if caught off guard, but he recovers just as quickly. His lips part, the question practically hanging out of his mouth.

“Are you afraid?”

You shut down after that. He tries to reel you back in, but you sever the line. He begs you for an answer, an explanation, but you can’t give him one even if you want to. Push and pull, push and pull; you tell him that you want your space, and leave him alone on that balcony. He shatters, and you step on the jagged pieces as you walk away. 

He stares up into the sky, that vast dark blue, stars reflecting in teary hues of brown and grey. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I just-”

“I am.” You interject; like the waves on Kamino, your voice rolls out uneasy and turbulent. He’s giving you a quizzical look, and you purge your head of cotton. “Afraid, I mean.”

He’s staring at you, or rather into you, silently begging you to continue. You swallow.

“I don’t…I don’t know how…” 

You grow hot, anxiety settling uncomfortably in your stomach like a bad meal. You’re meeting his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to break down into tears. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to wave a white flag, and scream “I surrender!” But you don’t. Not this time.

“I know that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest, or give you a reason why. I’m sorry that I left you alone, and I’m sorry that you had to save my ass tonight. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me because you do.” You’re sobbing at this point, and you feel him envelop you, all warmth and compassion, but you keep going, spilling your guts into his shoulder. 

“I’m scared, Hunter. Scared that if I tell you I love you too, you won’t be there when I roll over in the morning.” You break through the dirt and the grime and the weeds, telling him what sat heavy on your chest for the past two weeks. Cutting through the vines and underbrush, you find your flowers, and pick one just for him. 

“I love you, Hunter.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his orbit. You cradle his cheek, hard and defined, and it fits so perfectly in your palm. You start tracing his features with your thumb, saving every bump, dip, and hollow in your memory–locking it away in your heart. 

Clothes are strewn around the room from the heat of your passion; you told him loved him, and he decided to show you how much he loved you. There was a warmth building up inside of him, and he wanted to share it with you.

You’re naked, but in a way feels good, in the way that gives you hickies and butterflies. He’s streaked by hues of dark blue, and you can’t help but think of the night sky: bold, bright, and beautiful. He’s beautiful. You press soft lips to his forehead, and he unconsciously pulls you closer. 

Your heart swells with gratitude; after all of it, he stuck by you. Had the roles been reversed, you knew that he would’ve never left you alone on that balcony, reaching into the stars by yourself. He pried open your ribs, searching for your heart when you couldn’t do it yourself. He saw you bleeding and carved out pieces of himself to patch you up with. You close your eyes, and the only thing behind them are pictures of both of you.

He’s still there when you roll over in the morning.

[screamingintothestarss]

Bad Batch x male reader

Reader is seriously injured but hides it to extremes that *insert bad batch member* doesn’t notice until he faints from it.

i'm so sorry, but i'm not currently taking requests as of now because i just don't have the time (full time student ��). i will be sure to specify this on my blog! but thank you anon for trusting me to potentially write something for you!

[screamingintothestarss]

okay but the AURA this has 😭

Hayden Christensen for EMPIRE magazine (2024)

[screamingintothestarss]

i sincerely apologize, i dropped it on my way out 😩 . and yes, hunter is a great guy!!! he is built to be loved!! and thank you so much!!! 💙 💜

dark blue

summary: you’re hurting, and you don’t know if you can let hunter in

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: mature (17+)

warnings: mentions of drinking and alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of vomiting, angst, hurt with comfort, heavy feelings, kissing, non-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy, mature themes in general, mutual pining, swearing, reader kinda sucks with emotions

word count: 3.9k

notes: bone apple teeth! dies

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Your arm hangs over the tub's porcelain edge, beads of water streaking down the skin like rain. Bubbles and foam have long dissolved, yet you remain uncomfortably unmoving, eyes waterlogged and heavy. You don’t know how long you’ve been submerged, your skin beginning to prune and wrinkle much like your demeanor tonight. The weight of your loathing pulls down on your eyes, and you let them slip closed. 

Pulsing lights, loud music, and a mass of writhing bodies replay under your eyelids. Your stomach sours, and the feeling claws up your throat like the drink you tossed back two hours ago. A drunken holo, strong hands, and the heady scent of him remind you of why you’re even here. You sink further down into the tub, hoping that somehow the water will wash away your guilt.

You hiss as a raw ankle brushes along the bottom; you’d figured those strappy heels weren’t a good idea, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. You had a good time, you think. You had a good time, but the tears streaming down your face held their own narrative. You let out a choked sob, but before you can consider pulling it together, a gentle knock at the door has you reeling.

“Are you okay?” Hunter’s voice comes through muffled from behind the door. His tone is dripping with worry, and the knot in your stomach tightens. 

Are you okay? The question hangs over your head like a forbidden fruit, daring you to bite. You want to sink your teeth in and spill your guts–to tell him that you're not okay and that you need him, that you want-

He calls your name, and you hear his hand settling on the door's console. His concern nearly breaks your heart.

A scratchy "fine" is all you can muster. You're trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, all jagged and misshapen, but your hands are beginning to bleed. 

You can still feel him hovering behind the door, the air heavy enough to cut through. You can’t trust yourself to say anything else. 

He knows he’s hovering; he knows that you know he’s hovering. He shouldn’t be, though. He should be giving you the space you need right now, not rolling a question in between his teeth. He swallows it, choosing to leave you be, and pads back over into the living room.

A holomovie plays on the television, but he pays it no mind. 

I'm losing it, he thinks, brown-grey eyes flitting towards the bathroom door every few seconds. His hands unconsciously twirl a pen in between deft fingers, senses on the cusp of overload. Normally the thought of you filled him with something warm and saccharine, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. But now, with you being in the state that you're in, he can't help but feel prickly and uncomfortable. 

He'd been asleep when he got the call, eyes glossed over, squinting over a blue comlink. Your slurred voice and drunken divulgences had him vertiginous, chest cracking open and hands all clammy. You hadn't spoken to each other since the misunderstanding, as you had put it, from two weeks ago. You said that you wanted your space, and he respected that. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to just hold you. He's staring at the door, he realizes, unconsciously listening for any sign of you. 

He's your Jedi Knight; your protector. Without a doubt, he'd go to war for you, hands all filthy and bloodied and split if it meant yours could remain clean. 

It was also why he felt like utter shit when he pulled up to the bar to see you slumped over inside a comm booth. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Fuck," he breathes, clambering out of his speeder and making his way to you. He swears he's never moved faster in his life, the cuffs of his jeans dampening from each wet slap of his boots on the pavement. He approaches the glass doors, and his eyes focus on your watery form. The tendons in his heart snap. 

Your face is ruddy and sticky with sweat, strands of hair clinging to your forehead like a halo. A pretty dress is smattered with stains, no doubt from a drink, or drinks, that you'd likely spilled on yourself. Tears streak your face, taking what was left of your makeup with them.

You're a mess.

Without hesitation, he hooks his arm under your knees and uses the other to support your back. He shifts on his weight, and your cheek lazily slumps against his firm chest.

"I've got you," he breathes. "I've got you." 

His steps are careful, calculated. Like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he cradles you with reverence. He lays you down gently in the backseat, sliding his jacket down strong arms and draping it over your pretty figure. Calloused fingers brush away the wisps of hair stuck to your face, and you begin to stir.

Your head lolls to the side, and a choked groan rolls out of your throat. You feel like a hammer is cracking down against your skull, a poisonous rhythm that has you almost spilling the contents of tonight on rubber floor liner. 

Hunter scrambles to the middle console, plucking a bottle from the cupholder. You feel a familiar hand on your arm, calm and inviting; the opposite of how you're feeling right now. His warmth is the eye of your storm, and you're craving more. 

"Hey," he rasps, his timbre clattering around in your ears, replacing the loud thump thump thumping of your heart. It's gentle and sweet, and your bleary eyes find his amidst a dark sky and flashing lights. 

"Hunt..." is all you can say, the word clawing its way through your teeth. 

A strong hand slides in between your shoulder blades, and slowly sits you up. The bottle of something is pressed to your lips, and you part them. The liquid runs down your throat; an oasis in a desert, it brings you back to life. 

"I'm gonna take us home, okay?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Home. Even inebriated, his words had nearly knocked you flat on your ass. This wasn't your home, it was his. You were sitting in his bathtub, in his bathroom: in his home. 

He opened himself up to you in ways you didn't think possible; you held the keys to his heart, locked the door, and ran. 

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him too. He was so sure, so hopeful that the stars had aligned it for you both. He was so sure that your souls had woven themselves together, an intricate tapestry of adoration and understanding no saber could cut through. Maybe the seams weren't strong enough.

Your watery reflection stares back at you, and your lungs constrict.

You can't do this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You open the door, a cloud of hot steam following you as you pad towards the living room. Hunter had given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts to wear, and the fabric clings awkwardly to your frame.

Hunter sits on the sofa, pretending to watch the TV. 

"Didn't know you had a thing for fixer-uppers," you tease. Your heart's not in it, but you want to break through the tension somehow. You miss the way he takes a breath before facing you.

You're fully clothed, yet you feel so naked in front of him. You want to cover up, throwing a flustered “Get out!” over your shoulder whilst you find something to conceal your vulnerability with.

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to your light. You're swallowed by his shirt and his shorts, and it all begins to feel so domestic. He can't help it, letting his mind wander into uncharted territory–a thick jungle of things said and unsaid. Maybe he could've woken up to the sight of you in it, your face squished into plush pillows, serene as ever. Maybe he could've wrapped his arms around you, bunching the fabric up to your waist, tracing the sultry curve of thigh. He'd take care of you, love you the way you needed, the way you deserved.

Maybe he could've been something more to you.

You're melting under his gaze, white-hot electricity coursing through your veins. Your mouth opens.

"I'm-"

"Hey, I-"

You both speak at the same time; your lips clamp shut, and he does the same. He stares at you, silently begging you to say something. You take the hint.

"I'm sorry." The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, the grit of your guilt spilling over. Every nerve in your body is lit ablaze, and you're too wrecked to snuff them out. 

Like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, you want to run. You're looking this way and that, arms self-soothingly folded over your torso. You rock on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do with yourself.  

He sighs, thick and heavy. "Do you know what could've happened to you?" 

The implications are all there. Maker knows what could've happened had you not dialed his number. And you knew it. 

You're quiet. You don't know what else to say; what else is there to say?

Wordlessly, he pads over to you, his familiar warmth spreading across your shoulders and leading you toward the sofa. He sits you down, and it's frustratingly gentle.

"Are you hungry?" 

"No." The word darts through your teeth quicker than you expect, and it makes you wince. 

He chuckles at that. "Liar."

You let out a small laugh through your nose, breezy and cool. He'd always been able to read you; his senses were always keen when it came to you, and you swore he knew you better than you knew yourself at times. Like some sort of omniscient deity, he could see right through you, cutting through all the weeds and all the bullshit. 

But you couldn't handle that right now.

He's in the kitchen, making a sandwich, you think. You laugh to yourself, it's tight, but the thoughts of him stumbling around in the kitchen make you a little warmer. 

He'd always been a terrible cook, fumbling around everywhere and making a mess of himself. He was like a rancor in a china shop, utter destruction following in his wake. He'd given up on trying to learn, and you'd given up on trying to teach him. 

You tentatively turn towards the open kitchen, and then you're staring. Your eyes trace over his features; like a painter studying his muse, you note every detail, every stroke of the brush you'd need to make. Deep brown eyes are hyper-focused, framed by long brown locks curling down to his shoulders, a red bandana holding it all together. A strong aquiline nose crests over a chiseled face and stubbled jaw; maker, he was beautiful. 

You assumed he was a bit of a player when you first met; a lethal combo of face and body that left a string of holo-frequencies scrawled onto sticky notes and a series of romantic escapades; and maybe you were right. He'd been in and out of bedrooms before, maybe in search of the same thing you were: but you didn't even know what that was yet. 

You got to know him, peeling back all the layers and fluff and stripping him down to the core. You realized just how wrong you had him. He was always a gentleman, a gemstone in the dirt. He never played games or messed around for the hell of it; he was real. You weren't used to that.

Maybe it's why the pool of regret in your stomach swallowed you whole tonight, leaving you with a bruised ankle and a stained dress. 

You slump against plush cushions, heart heavy and mind spasming. You're tired in every sense of the word, the gears in your head creaking to a halt; you've got no juice left. 

Hunter returns from the kitchen, handing you a homemade sandwich and a bag of chips. 

"Thank you," you tell him. You don't think you've ever been more thankful for someone. He smiles at you, and it's warm–something you'd wrap in foil and save for later.

"Of course." He says it like it's obvious. Obvious that he'd be there for you when you needed him; he always was. 

He sits beside you on the sofa stealing shy glances at your side profile, and it hurts him. It hurts knowing that you would never want him in the way that he wanted you. He'd remain on the backburner then, starting the gas and keeping you warm if that's what you wanted. 

You catch him staring at you, and you stare right back. He knew you, but you'd argue you knew him better. His eyes are trying to tell you something, and that knot in your stomach returns. 

He wants to talk about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You stare into the dark blue of the sky, cool and vast like the deep end of a pool; you want to dive in and drown in it. Stars are all smattered against the surface as if someone had flicked a paint brush against it, and you try to reach up and grab one.

"Not getting lost up there are you?" a voice says to your right, and you nearly jump ten feet in the air.

"Shit-!"

"M'sorry," Hunter laughs, and it instantly dissolves your annoyance. "Was gonna ask if you were ready to go?" His eyes flash down on you, and you're beginning to get lost in hues of brown and gold.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of cobwebs and butterflies before you answer. "Yeah," you breathe. "You made reservations, right?" "

"Yeah, ten o'clock." 

Then you're staring at each other. Something in the air shifts, and you both know it. These little moments you've had with each other were happening more often; like the steady drip of water in a bucket, you'd walked away for a second, and now it's on the brink of overflow. 

The woody scent of his cologne fries your senses, and you try to keep your eyes from shamelessly ravaging his form. 

But Hunter's unabashed, unshameful without remorse. His eyes flit up and down your curves, taking in how your dress hugs you in all the right places.  You playfully slap his arm.

"Quit that!" But you don't mean it, a smile spreading across your face like butter. 

He meets your eyes again, and he doesn't hear you call his name over the thumping of his heart. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, your line cast.

"Hunter?" His name falls from your lips again, and he's just staring; your presence alone is a siren's call, and he's about to end up floating in the depths below. 

He has to do this, he thinks. He's been waiting for the perfect time, an opportunity to give himself over to you; to tell you how you've infiltrated his very core, molding it into your shape. To tell you how often he thinks of you, his head full of sugar and cotton and everything you.

 The tick tick tick of the clock is winding down, and he's falling behind. 

"Hunt-"

"I love you!”

You're frozen. The fire lit in your belly is put out cold, and now you're left shaking. 

Fuck.

The words don't sit in your stomach right, twisting and turning and gnawing at you as they settle to the bottom. They wrap themselves around your neck and squeeze. His confession shouldn't be coming as a surprise to you; the signs were always there, big bold letters and all: I love you.

You hold onto the balcony railing in an attempt to ground yourself. A hand cools the white-hot grip you have on the metal bars.

"Are you okay?" His voice is worried–terrified, even. He fucked up. The timing was all wrong; he should've told you sooner, or later. Maybe he was being selfish, unfairly assuming your heart did rounds in your ears when you were around him. Maybe he-

"I can't do this." Your voice comes out creaky and broken, and Hunter feels his chest cave in. 

He feels awful, the kind that leaves you with cracked ribs and a broken jaw. He took a risk, diving into those dark depths, and ended up being pulled straight under. 

But he was so sure.

He does what does best; he comforts you. Large palms caress your shoulders as they begin to shake, the weight of his words settling in the gaps. 

"I'm so sorry," he's telling you, and it's so soft and sincere it has you heaving. "I'm sorry…I never meant to hurt you." 

That seals it, and you're sobbing even harder: all hot tears and a snotty nose. 

You're no stranger to hurt. You'd tried your hand at relationships before, throwing darts at the board until something stuck. You'd accounted for the grit and grime: the song and dance of trying to love someone else, except you had two left feet. Once the music stopped, you'd turn over, your partner long gone. 

And so you buried the dartboard along with everything else, packing it away into the dirt like cement, and walked away. 

And then he came along.

All charm and smolder, sweeping you off of your feet with ease. You both were like magnets; there was no push and pull, no tugging on a rope or trying to keep him tethered, he was always drawn to you. He understood you, believed in you. He introduced you to his brothers and sister, giving you a family of your own; something to always keep close to your heart. 

And you didn’t want to lose that.

Love just erodes things, in your eyes. 

“Just go.” It comes out defeated, pathetic. A boulder in your throat, you’re barely able to say the words, much less to him. You do what you do best: run away. 

He can’t be hearing you correctly. He lets go of you, much to his chagrin, and steps away. A strong jaw locks–petrified. He’d planted the seeds of you in his heart, and you’d ripped them out by the root. Your words clatter around in his head, but he reigns them in and takes a good look:

This isn’t you. 

“What’s going on?” He says it as gently as he can, like soothing a wounded animal, he doesn’t want to scare you away any more than he already has. 

You can’t look him in the eye. Bile edges on your teeth and your next words come out venomous: “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Yes, I do.

“Just leave me alone-”

Please don’t go.

“I just can’t-”

I will, for you.

Like a child learning to speak, your words trip and tumble over themselves. There’s too much to say, that grime still under your fingernails. How do you articulate two years of pain? You feel him stepping closer to you, and that gnawing urge to flee at the base of your skull chews into your brain. Rough palms curl around your arms, and he turns you around so that you’re facing him. He stares into watery red eyes and feels his heart split. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he’s far from that, but he just needs to know–to understand what all of this meant to you. But he needs to check in on you first; like he always has. 

“Tell me what’s wrong…please?” He’s pleading with you, and you feel sick. You know you’re pushing him away, culling peonies and roses, and leaving nothing but dirt. You meet his eyes: brown, gold, and gray. 

He bristles as if caught off guard, but he recovers just as quickly. His lips part, the question practically hanging out of his mouth.

“Are you afraid?”

You shut down after that. He tries to reel you back in, but you sever the line. He begs you for an answer, an explanation, but you can’t give him one even if you want to. Push and pull, push and pull; you tell him that you want your space, and leave him alone on that balcony. He shatters, and you step on the jagged pieces as you walk away. 

He stares up into the sky, that vast dark blue, stars reflecting in teary hues of brown and grey. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I just-”

“I am.” You interject; like the waves on Kamino, your voice rolls out uneasy and turbulent. He’s giving you a quizzical look, and you purge your head of cotton. “Afraid, I mean.”

He’s staring at you, or rather into you, silently begging you to continue. You swallow.

“I don’t…I don’t know how…” 

You grow hot, anxiety settling uncomfortably in your stomach like a bad meal. You’re meeting his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to break down into tears. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to wave a white flag, and scream “I surrender!” But you don’t. Not this time.

“I know that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest, or give you a reason why. I’m sorry that I left you alone, and I’m sorry that you had to save my ass tonight. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me because you do.” You’re sobbing at this point, and you feel him envelop you, all warmth and compassion, but you keep going, spilling your guts into his shoulder. 

“I’m scared, Hunter. Scared that if I tell you I love you too, you won’t be there when I roll over in the morning.” You break through the dirt and the grime and the weeds, telling him what sat heavy on your chest for the past two weeks. Cutting through the vines and underbrush, you find your flowers, and pick one just for him. 

“I love you, Hunter.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his orbit. You cradle his cheek, hard and defined, and it fits so perfectly in your palm. You start tracing his features with your thumb, saving every bump, dip, and hollow in your memory–locking it away in your heart. 

Clothes are strewn around the room from the heat of your passion; you told him loved him, and he decided to show you how much he loved you. There was a warmth building up inside of him, and he wanted to share it with you.

You’re naked, but in a way feels good, in the way that gives you hickies and butterflies. He’s streaked by hues of dark blue, and you can’t help but think of the night sky: bold, bright, and beautiful. He’s beautiful. You press soft lips to his forehead, and he unconsciously pulls you closer. 

Your heart swells with gratitude; after all of it, he stuck by you. Had the roles been reversed, you knew that he would’ve never left you alone on that balcony, reaching into the stars by yourself. He pried open your ribs, searching for your heart when you couldn’t do it yourself. He saw you bleeding and carved out pieces of himself to patch you up with. You close your eyes, and the only thing behind them are pictures of both of you.

He’s still there when you roll over in the morning.

[screamingintothestarss]

everything is fine, we're all okay. 😭 👍

we never quite made it

Tech x F!Reader

word count: 10k

description: after first meeting on kamino, you and tech seem to keep running into each other, without being able to fully indulge in each other's company. will you ever find the time to be able to tell each other of the feelings that have bloomed over the years?

warnings: not a happy ending!! death, torture (not in any great detail), blood & needles, some mentions of other medical stuff, tech brainrot I fear, don't wanna spoil it but... cx-2...

a/n: okay this was originally just gonna be a cute little fluffy thing and then I kinda went over board. it's a little more high-concept (which feels like a generous word for it) than my other oneshots but i'm pretty happy with how it turned out :) also anyone who writes tech fics regularly I salute you 🫡 it is truly not for the weak

22BBY, KAMINO

You waited patiently in the medical bay, lining up your various tools so none of them were out of place. You weren’t necessarily a neat freak, it was just something to occupy your hands. You were about to see your first patient since transferring from the hospital on Coruscant, to Kamino, in an effort to help the war effort.

The other medics around you weren’t new, and seemed a lot more relaxed, and sure of themselves. You had faith in your abilities as a medic, you had graduated from university into the job a number of years ago now, but somehow this felt like a lot more responsibility, looking after the men that fought for the Republic.

Your fingers were fidgeting at your sides when the door to the medical bay slid open, and a large group of clones were ushered inside by a Kaminoan. You were at the back of the room, so the clones from the front of the group were shown to the medics closest to them. As the group parted, you could see there were a group of clones in vastly different armour from their brothers, and your interest was certainly piqued.

You watched with intrigue as they got closer to you, and before you knew it, one of them was standing in front of you. You still felt nervous, but the timid look on the youthful face of this clone was enough to snap you into gear.

“Hello” You smiled at him sweetly, gesturing to the cot next to you, “Do you want to take a seat?”

The clone didn’t say anything, but obliged quickly. He was taller than many of the clones you worked on before, his hair a light auburn, and he wore goggles that were tinted a subtle yellow.

“What’s your name?” You asked politely.

“CT-9902, Ma’am”

The nervousness was evident in his voice, which you noted was different from the other clones, a more formal twinge and bite to the vowels.

“No need for all that Trooper, just my name is fine” You chuckled a little, tapping the name badge on your uniform, “and I asked for your name. What do your brothers call you?”

The clone looked to the name badge and then up to your eyes, “Tech”

“Well Tech, I understand that this is your last check-up before you graduate, is that right?”

“Uh, technically, we have already graduated. We are waiting to be deployed” He corrected you and you nodded.

”I understand” You smiled, “I’m just going to take some of your blood, if that’s okay”

“Of course it’s okay” He said matter-of-factly, “I wouldn’t expect anything less”

You had to suppress a smirk at his observation as you took the syringe from the tray, “It’s just what they ask us to say, bedside manner and all that”

“Ah” He replied, a blush tinging his ears pink, “My apologies”

It was hard not to find Tech adorable. He was so young and fresh-faced, somehow more so than the other recently graduated clones around the room. Perhaps it was the difference in facial structure, slightly pursed lips, or the big brown eyes that looked up at you though his goggles.

“No need” You waved off his apology, “It’s nice not to have to baby your patients really”

Tech nodded thoughtfully, and took of his left vambrace to allow you access to the correct vein, rolling up his sleeve. You raised an eyebrow at his actions.

“You had a lot of blood taken before?” You asked, and he looked at you puzzled.

“No” He replied simply, “Why?”

“I didn’t have to tell you where I was going to take it from” You gestured the syringe towards his now bare forearm.

“Ah, well” He looked down at himself and back up, “I am… a little knowledgeable about such things”

You smirked a little as you took his arm, keeping him talking while you placed the needle to his skin, “Knowledgeable huh? and why is that?”

He looked up at your face as you worked, wholly uninterested in the needle that was pressing into his arm, “I am interested in knowing about it”

You hummed slightly in reply, drawing the blood from the clone and placing the syringe down again.

“Just a few more things to check” You said, taking the small torch from your belt, “Would you mind taking off your goggles for just a moment?”

The clone didn’t hesitate, and pushed his goggles atop his head.

“Now, look straight ahead” You told him, and shined the light into his eye, checking to see if his pupils were dilating properly. At some point his eyes flicked up to yours, and you were surprised by the flurry of butterflies that filled your stomach. “Eyes ahead, Tech” You reminded him, and he righted himself straight away. You had to bite back your grin at his certainly interesting demeanour.

As you moved onto his other eye, you let your curiosity get the best of you, “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you and your brothers… a little different?”

“I do mind you asking actually” He said plainly, and you were unsure if you had actually upset him, if he was kidding, or if that was just how he spoke.

“Okay” You smiled graciously, choosing to just move on, “You can put your goggles back on now”

Tech watched you carefully as he pulled down and adjusted his goggles until they were comfortable again. With your pleasant smile, it seemed that you were just being sincere and inquisitive in asking about him and his brothers, and he felt a little silly for just brushing you off.

“We usually get seen by the Kaminoans” Tech noted, “Why are there civilian medics on Kamino now?”

“We volunteered” You shrugged with a small smile, “Could you lie down?”

Tech once again did as you said quickly, a little too quickly this time, hitting the back of his head on the cot that was not as comfortable as he had thought. You winced a little and his cheeks flushed immediately.

”Good thing I’m about to scan you” You joked, “Hopefully that didn’t do any damage”

Tech pointed his first finger up as he talked, “It is highly unlikely that I would sustain any dam-”

“I know Tech, I was just kidding” You interrupted, and he stuttered as he looked up at you standing over him with a gentle smile

“Right” He nodded, “Of course you do, my apologies”

”There’s no need to apologise” You smiled, pulling down the scanner over him “Stay still now”

You stepped back from the machine and picked up your datapad, reading over the information as the scanner picked it up. It scanned his identifying code in his wrist and your eyebrows raised at his profile. Defective, genetically enhanced intellect and cognitive functions.

“Is something wrong?” He questioned your reaction.

“No, you’re in perfect health in fact” You answered his question, pulling the machine away so he could sit up.

“What is the… matter, then?” He asked slightly hesitantly.

“The machine scanned your identifying code” You explained, unable to hold back your grin, “You sound like a very interesting individual indeed, Tech”

Tech blushed furiously, looking away and noting that his brothers were already finished with their examinations, huddled together watching him with the widest grins he had ever seen from them. He only blushed further upon seeing them, scowling and turning back to you. You just watched him with a look of vague amusement on your face.

“Well, you’re all good to go now” You informed him, and he stood quickly, accidently knocking the elbow of his armour against your hip.

He was mortified. “I am so very sorry” He spoke hurriedly, turning back towards you with wide eyes, gently holding onto your arm without even realising.

“It’s really alright” You replied with a chuckle, though it was a little strained.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, that is the last thing I would mean to do” He continued, and you couldn’t help but find his reaction so effortlessly charming

“I like the way you speak, Tech” You smiled, genuine happiness just taking over your face.

Tech didn’t think it was possible for his face to heat up even more, but he had to clutch at the edge of his blacks and pull them away from his neck so it didn’t feel like he was over heating. He didn’t know what to say at all. He couldn’t think of the last time he had ever been complimented by someone, let alone someone as pretty as you. He willed himself to get a grip, knowing he was just giving in to his body in allowing those kind of thoughts to fester, and he cleared his throat.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you” He added your name with an emphasis, as if it was to help him remember it, “If I weren’t about to leave I would ask you to explain the functionality of this machine you’ve just used on me”

“Maybe another time?”

Tech nodded, “Another time”

“Goodbye Tech” You smiled at him warmly, “It was a pleasure to meet you too”

Tech nodded and turned to leave, making a beeline for his brothers, who welcomed him by teasing him mercilessly, the largest of the bunch ruffling his auburn curls. You watched them leave, and caught Tech looking back at you as he exited the room.

21BBY, KAMINO

“New orders”

Before you could realise, a datapad was being thrown at you. Luckily you got your hands around it before it dropped to the floor. You looked over the screen, then up at the other medic.

“We're not trained for that” You implored.

“The GAR is running low on medics, they asked for some of us to fill the roles for now” They replied with a shrug, “It's probably more interesting than being here anyway”

You could agree with that.

“What squad are you with?” The other medic asked, and you looked back down, tapping on your name.

“Clone Force 99” You informed them. The name rung a bell from somewhere…

“Never heard of them” The medic replied, “Guess you'll find out tomorrow”

Having stayed up late investigating the group of clones you were instructed to be joining, it was no wonder that you were bouncing on your toes with a beaming smile as their ship came hurtling into the hangar. You were impressed by their success rate, not falling short of perfect, but it was from realising exactly who was a part of this team that made you so eager.

You would be lying to say you hadn't thought of Tech a few times since first meeting him. With him being your first patient here on Kamino, it was hard not to compare the other clones to him, and while you had no issue with the other clones, you had not enjoyed your time with them as much as that first encounter.

The ship was set down on the ground, and soon the small batch of clones emerged from inside, looking particularly disinterested, and your smile faltered. They huddled together outside, talking amongst themselves, some of them leaning on the side of the ship.

You walked over slowly, feeling a little more hesitant than you had initially been. You couldn't see Tech, as he was behind his brothers, but you recognised the rest of them by their differing appearances.

You cleared your throat, gaining the attention of the clones, and offering them a small smile. They turned to look at you, apart from Tech who's face was buried in a datapad.

“Hello, I think I've been assigned to your squad” You spoke, and that's when Tech's head snapped up, his eyes meeting yours.

He looked a bit older than the last time you had seen him. His face seemed slimmer, his cheekbones slightly more hollowed out and defined, his jaw strong, but his widened eyes had the memorable sparkle in them all the same.

“We don't need you here” One of the others said, earning a elbow in the ribs as you looked up at him.

“Shut up Cross” The elbow-er hissed quietly at the elbow-ee, “Ignore him, it's nice to meet you…”

You told the man your name.

“Well, I'm Hunter” He introduced himself, and you gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

Crosshair rolled his eyes, “Why are we being made to have a medic?”

“I'm not sure” You shrugged, “I wasn't really told all too much about it”

Crosshair seemed almost pleased that you were just in the dark as them, then grunted, pushing his way past you and onto the ship.

Hunter huffed, noting your slightly offended expression, “Sorry about Crosshair, he's in a mood. We just weren't… expecting this, is all”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, “Me neither”

“Well anyway, let's get going” He walked up the ship's steps.

“I'm Wrecker” The large clone introduced himself with a warm smile, which you were inclined to return.

You held out your hand to him, and he took it with a crushing strength. “Nice to meet you… Wrecker” You managed to peep out despite the force of his grip.

Wrecker followed his commanding officer up the stairs afterwards, and you were about to follow after, but realised Tech was still stood firmly in his place. You looked back at him and he was still staring at you.

“You coming Tech?”

His eyes went a little wider.

“You know who I am?” He said, his voice holding a clear tone of surprise, though it was nowhere near as timid as it had been the last time you saw him.

Your cheeks flushed a little, embarrassed that he had clearly made more of an impression on you than you had on him.

“Oh, you don't remember meeting?” You asked, keeping your voice even.

“No, no, I remember” He confirmed, “I just didn't think you would remember me”

You gave him a puzzled look, a smile growing on your face, “Of course I remember you”

“Can you two wrap it up, we're leaving” Crosshair shouted from inside, and you chuckled slightly nervously, walking up the ramp.

Tech was still frozen in place for a moment. He hadn't been excited to be getting a medic, having ample training and knowledge of the subject himself, but now, he couldn't help but feel a little exhilarated that it was you that would be joining them.

The few times that the squad had been back to Kamino since graduation, Tech had found himself wandering down to the medical bay. He hadn't talked to you, he was far too nervous to do that, but he had watched you work through the little window in the door. You had almost caught him one time, and that's when he decided to stop doing it, realising how strange he was behaving.

He walked up the stairs of the Marauder, a little on edge, a little nervous, but a little more happy than he had been when they landed.

21BBY, MARAUDER

Tech was staring. At you, to be specific. Once again.

His brain worked at a klick a minute, and yet, whatever you had just said to him had him stumped. His mouth hung open a little, his eyes slightly narrowed and his brow furrowed deeply. He wasn't saying anything. For once, nothing was going on in his head. It was like his brain had frozen, unable to process any new thoughts. He was confused.

“Tech?” You said hesitantly, drawing him from his stupor.

“I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly” He replied assuredly.

You hesitated a little before asking again, “I asked you if you think I should leave”

That's what he thought you'd said.

“I don’t understand your meaning” He dropped the tool from his hand and stood up, facing you and trying to read every movement you made.

You felt a little uneasy under his scrutiny, but continued nonetheless, “Like… leave the team”

Tech still couldn't understand.

“Why are you asking me this?” He asked, his brow furrowing even deeper.

“Well, I figured you would give me an honest answer” You shrugged. Tech was nothing if not upfront, and it was one of the many things you liked about him.

“No, I mean… why are you asking this at all?” He surveyed your reaction to his words, your throat constricting as you swallowed and subtly wiped you hands on your trousers.

“Uh… I suppose I don't feel that my presence is very necessary”

“I don't see how you could possibly think that” Tech replied, “You have a very useful skillset”

“Well, I know that Hunter doesn't exactly love having me around, and Crosshair even less so” You argued, “And my ‘useful skillset’ hardly gets used around here”

Tech didn't know what to say. There was something nagging at him from the depths of his consciousness, urging him to tell you to stay. He found you exceedingly interesting, and enjoyed hearing about your medical exploits from before joining their squad. He always asked under the guise of learning new information, but his brothers all understood, far more than him, that it wasn't just knowledge that kept him asking you questions.

At this point, you had been with the Bad Batch for a few months, and - as you were explaining to Tech - you had not felt very useful at all. They rarely got injured, but even when they did, they would mostly refuse your help. Particularly Hunter. Crosshair had not warmed to you at all, though Wrecker did seem to enjoy your company. Tech was kind, in his own way. He always listened to you attentively, and as both of you were reasonably light sleepers, you had often found yourselves staying up together between missions, talking about a great many things. He seemed interested to know about medical procedures, but expanding his knowledge was only making you more and more obsolete within the group.

“I'm sorry if we've made you feel unwelcome” He said, and your gaze softened a little.

“It's okay, I know none of you really wanted me here in the first place”

“That’s…” Tech tried to find the words, “I would not say that is entirely factual. Though if you would like to leave, I think you should”

You couldn’t help but feel a little disheartened by Tech’s words, but you did come to him for the truth after all, you couldn’t be mad now.

“Alright, I'll notify the medical team back on Kamino then”

You walked away from Tech, and his brain began working, screaming at him to ask you to stay. He pressed his lips into a hard line, trying to come up with something, anything that he could say to make you stay, but all of the possibilities floating around in his head were jumbled and he couldn’t make sense of anything. He shook his head, trying to focus himself, but you had already walked away, already set on leaving.

“Get away from me”

You were crouched over Crosshair’s crumpled form, who was bent over and holding the wound to his side in the co-pilot's chair of the Marauder.

“Crosshair, I'm only trying to help” You insisted, trying to tend to him.

“I don't need your kriffing help, back off” He hissed, snatching the medkit from you.

You sighed deeply, taking a step back, “You know this is the reason I'm here right? To help when things like this happen?”

“We don't need you!” He shouted, “We never wanted you here, and we certainly don't now”

“Crosshair, calm down” Hunter scolded lightly, and when you turned to him you could see the look on his face, where you knew he agreed with his brother but was holding his tongue.

“Well good for you, I'll be gone soon” You mumbled as you stormed away, your eyes welling up instinctively from someone raising their voice at you.

You felt entirely useless.

You became a medic because you wanted to help people, and you joined the GAR medic team because you wanted to help clones specifically, but here you were, surrounded by clones, and they didnt want your help. It was hard not to feel downcast about it.

You understood Crosshair's contempt to a certain level, but did he really have to be so mean?

Tech could hear your soft sobs from outside the door to the cargo hold. He knocked firmly, and heard you sniff before telling him to enter.

When he saw the rosy tint of your nose and cheeks and the tears running down them, he realised that he had no idea how to comfort you in this moment. He stared at you as you stared up at him, waiting for him to say something.

“I'm sorry” He said unsurely, and you gave him a sad smile.

“It's fine Tech”

“I don't really think it is ‘fine’. I am very unimpressed with the way my brothers have behaved towards you” He asserted.

Looking down at you, your knees tucked into your chest and biting into your bottom lip to stop it quivering, he was reminded that he really didn't want you to leave, and even further, he realised the true reason why. He finally mustered up the courage to ask you to stay.

“I know that you're not happy at the moment, being with this team. I… I wish it were different, I wish we could have made you more comfortable. I am sure that if you stayed for a little longer and I talked to my brothers that-”

“I've heard from Kamino already, they want me back” You said softly, cutting him off before he could even say it.

“Ah, I see” He paused, then turned away “I shall leave you to-”

“Tech”

He turned back to you, and you offered him a soft, genuine smile, “I appreciate it, thank you”

He just nodded to you and left, the nasty feeling of rejection gnawing at his brain.

As the Marauder touched down in the hangar on Kamino, there was the most unpleasant sensation stirring in your gut. This was the right choice, you didn't fit in here, and you wanted to actually make a difference. Despite knowing all this, you couldn't help but feel strange, and descending the ship’s stairs felt like regressing, going backwards instead of forwards.

You turned to look at the clones as you left. Each of them, apart from Crosshair, gave a nod and a goodbye and walked back inside. Aside from Tech, of course.

He followed you down the steps, and it was the look on his face that placed that feeling in your gut. It was the reluctancy to leave behind this man that you had grown so fond of over the past few months, this man who listened to you and made you feel wanted despite the rest of the squad's insistency to not.

It had only been a few months, but you realised that you had grown very close with the clone before you, and your heart ached. You realised the depth of the feelings you harboured for him, that it was something you had never felt for another.

“I'll miss you Tech, it's been nice getting to know you” You spoke honestly, realising this could be the last time you saw him.

Tech sighed almost imperceptibly, “I agree, I shall miss… learning about medical procedures from you”

You couldn't help but laugh, “Well next time you're on Kamino, swing by the medical bay and I'll be happy to answer your questions”

“Are you making fun of me?” Tech suddenly resembled the shy cadet that you had met the first time.

“No” You smiled, “I'd always be happy to talk to you”

Tech didn't know what the correct thing to say was, so he said nothing. He just stared at you, once again, his mind fighting for anything to say once more. There was nobody that could send his mind spiralling like you did, and it seemed that you didn't even try to.

You smiled despite his slightly awkward silence, and stepped forwards, raising to your toes to plant a soft kiss to his cheek, “Goodbye Tech”

Tech could feel his face burning, from the blush that overtook him, and the feeling of your lips searing into his skin, rendering him completely speechless. As you walked away, he brought a hand to his face where you had kissed him and traced the area with his finger lightly.

“Ugh, I'm going to throw up” Crosshair asserted from the doorway of the ship.

“Shhhh” Wrecker pushed him and watched Tech swoon over you with a large grin.

Tech paid them no mind. He just watched you leave, a mix of emotions overtaking him. A frown settled on his face as your figure disappeared into the facility, but the feel of your lips on his cheek brought a warm feeling to his chest.

19BBY, ANAXES

“Hey Baar'ur'ika!” You heard the unmistakable voice of Jesse call out to you as he jogged over to the medbay in the Anaxes base.

“He doesn't call me that you know” Kix asserted from beside you, and you chuckled.

“Do you want him to?” You asked earnestly, but with an amused twinkle in your eye.

“That's besides the point" He grumbled, earning another laugh from you.

“Me and Kix are being sent on a mission with the Captain” Jesse said as he came to a stop in front of you.

“We are?” Kix asked

Jesse nodded, “Some special squad is joining us apparently”

“Special?”

“Yeah, I'm not sure why though, you wanna come find out?” He grinned, gesturing his head towards the landing strip.

“Can't. I've got all these reports to sign off” You sighed, holding up your stack of flimsi.

“Alright, we'll see you later on then Baar'ur'ika” Jesse smiled, ruffling your hair.

You huffed, putting the lose strands of it back into place, “See you later”

You took up your stylus again, clicking it absentmindedly as you read over the reports.

You had been reassigned to the 501st only a few weeks after leaving clone force 99, and you fit in so much better here. It seemed that the clones of the 501st actually wanted to get along with you, and they always included you in their shenanigans, reluctantly on your end. You got along with all of them really well, but Kix and Jesse were the ones you were closest with. You worked most closely with Kix, so that was only natural, but Jesse was certainly the most friendly to you from the outset.

You came across a report with an error, and checked the next piece of flimsi, and the same error had been made. You then leafed through all of the pages and realised the error had been made on every single one of them, and you groaned loudly. It then occurred to you that maybe you were the one making the error, and so you grabbed the stack of pages, rushing out the door to try and grab Kix before he left for his mission.

Luckily when you got to the landing strip, him and Jesse were still standing there with the Captain. You rushed over to them, almost dropping a page on the way.

“Kix, can I just ask you about something” You spoke, and the huddle of clones turned to look at you.

“Ah Baar'ur'ika, you came to investigate after all” Jesse slung an arm around your shoulders with a grin.

“I didn't come to investigate, I-”

Your voice seemingly stopped working as you turned your head and locked eyes with the specific ones that had always managed to draw you in and leave you speechless. Those wonderful brown eyes that always widened when they met yours

“Tech” You couldn't hold back the smile that grew on your face.

Tech spoke your name, and Jesse stifled a laugh when he felt a shiver run up your back.

You were absolutely mesmerised by the man in front of you. It had been just over a year since you had seen him, and in that time it seemed that he had only got even more beautiful. Your heart felt as if it had been set alight, the emotions that accompanied seeing Tech returning as if you had only said goodbye to him yesterday.

“We're here too” Wrecker laughed, snapping your gaze away from the spectacled clone.

“Hey Wrecker” You grinned, and he gave you a wink in return.

“Hey Hunter, Crosshair” You addressed the last two clones.

“Hey, it's good to see you” Hunter replied, a small genuine smile directed towards you.

Crosshair didn't say anything, but you hadn't expected him to.

“You know these guys?” Jesse asked, squeezing your shoulder.

“Uh, yeah. I was with them for a little while” You replied, looking to the floor for a moment before realising why you were here. “Oh! Kix, I just need to ask about this”

Tech watched you talking with the other medic and flipping through the pieces of flimsi as everyone else fell back into their previous conversation. His eyes lingered on the arm slung around your shoulders, and the way you placed your own hand on the shoulder of the other clone. You were clearly comfortable around these clones, and Tech's jealousy fizzled away to a form of sadness as he realised that you were so much happier with these clones than you had been with them. With him.

You settled the matter with Kix, and turned towards Tech once more, stepping forward so you stood in front of him.

“How are you?” You asked, clasping your hands behind your back.

“I am well” Tech replied flatly, not giving away an inch of the emotions that swirled within him, “How about yourself?”

“I'm good yeah” You smiled, “I've been here for a few rotations”

“With the 501st?” Tech asked.

“Oh no, just on Anaxes, I've been with these guys since… well, a couple weeks after I left you”

Something about the sentence pulled at Tech's heart. These clones were so lucky. They had got to spend all of this time by your side, all this time that he had spent with you only as a memory in his head, your absence taunting him constantly.

“I- Uh- I am glad to see you are doing well, you seem… happier, than last I saw you” He observed, pulling a small laugh from you.

“Maybe a bit. I do miss having someone to rant to though” You smirked a little at him, and despite his heated cheeks, he returned the gesture.

“I don't know that I'd call it ‘ranting’, you were always very precise with your words, very… intentional” He complimented you in a way that only made sense to both of you.

You hummed in response, “Well how's this for intentional - I've missed you Tech”

Tech couldn't hold back the small contented sigh that escaped him.

“I have missed you too” He admitted, indulging in losing himself in your eyes, inspecting ever fleck of colour.

“Hey Tech! We've gotta get going” Hunter shouted over to him. Neither one if you had realised the others had moved away.

Tech scowled inwardly, turning his attention back to you, “I was… I should like to ask you about biopsy methods, I am unsure of safe practice”

“Maybe another time?” You asked hopefully.

He nodded, a small smile quirking the edges of his lips, “Another time”

In a bout of confidence and rising adrenaline, Tech found himself leaning down and pressing a short kiss to your cheek, as you had done to him last time. Your mouth hung open a little as he then immediately walked off and joined his brothers on the gunship, surprised that he had actually done such a thing.

“Bye Baar'ur'ika” Jesse called teasingly, and you were snapped from your daze.

“Bye di'kut” You called, rolling your eyes as you clutched your flimsi close to your chest.

Tech's eyes locked with yours as the doors to the gunship closed, and it made your chest ache. You could still feel the warmth of his breath, the gentle scratch of his stubble, the softness of his lips. It was all too much and not enough, and watching him leave hurt more than you thought it would.

18BBY, CORUSCANT

You sat at your makeshift desk, your head in your hand and flicking through your datapad to survey the latest news. Things certainly had become bleak since the rise of the Empire.

You heard your name called, and your head snapped up to meet the golden eyes of Senator Chuchi.

“Senator, what can I do for you?” You asked, sitting up straight.

“Please, it's Riyo, and it's more what I can do for you” She said with a small smirk lifting the edges of her lips.

“Oh” You said, your eyebrows drawing together in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“There's a new clone joining us, I believe you know him” She replied, her smirk growing.

You immediately stood from your seat, “Is it who I think it is?”

“Perhaps” The Senator shrugged coyly.

You couldn't hold back your grin, “Where is he?”

“Just in the hangar” She nodded in the direction.

“Thank you Sen- Riyo” You said quickly, rushing from behind your desk towards the hangar.

You had known that Echo was alive, but this was the first time you would actually be seeing him since before the mission to the citadel where he had been presumed dead, and boy was he a sight for sore eyes.

“Echo!” You exclaimed excitedly, drawing the attention of the clone as you ran towards him across the hangar.

The clone's eyes lit up as he took in the sight of you, and stepped forwards, taking you in a tight hug when you crashed into him.

“It's good to see you” He said with a smile as he pulled away.

“It's even better to see you” You grinned, “I was so upset I didn't get to see you after you were rescued”

“I heard” He smirked, looking over his shoulder at Rex.

You looked over at the blonde clone too, and saw that he was watching on with three other familiar clones.

“Woah” You couldn't stop yourself from saying, “I heard you were hanging around with this lot nowadays”

Once your eyes found Tech, you couldn't bring yourself to look away. He seemed to be hanging back a bit, his eyes once again a little wide behind his goggles.

“Hey!” Wrecker said excitedly, earning a small laugh from you.

“Hey Wrecker, hey Hunter” You smiled at the clones.

“Hi” The Sergeant smiled at you.

Wrecker then pushed Tech forwards, and you smirked a little as he glared at his larger brother.

“Hey Tech, how's it going?” You asked, and he brought his eyes back to you.

In a way he couldn't define, you seemed more mature than when he had last saw you. Perhaps it was the tiredness he saw in your eyes, or perhaps it was the few small scars that adorned your skin, clearly earned in battle. The thought of you sustaining injuries made his stomach lurch, so he tried not to think of it.

The way you were looking at him was so familiar. Your smile was kind and easy, gracing your features in a way that was so uniquely you. The light crinkle around your eyes and lips, the small glint in your eye, the way one side of your mouth was more contorted than the other. Tech was certainly glad to see you.

“Uh… it is going well” Tech replied unsurely after a moment, and you smirked a little bit at his answer.

It was intoxicating to be in Tech's presence once more. Everytime you were around him, things felt a little different, like there was something in the air that made everyone else look a bit more fuzzy as he was brought into focus. It didn't ever help that he was seemingly always getting so much more handsome every time you saw him.

His auburn locks were a little longer at the moment, no doubt because his biggest priority whilst on the run from the Empire was not his hair, but you weren't complaining. His hair framed his angelic face so perfectly, his features undeniably sharper and more mature, though his eyes were still as soft and gentle as they had always been, with a startling youthfulness that he couldn't seem to shake.

“It's good to see you guys, I'm glad to see you're not… with the Empire” You said a little hesitantly, then noticed the small blonde girl that was hiding behind Hunter.

He noticed you looking at her and introduced her to you.

“It's nice to meet you Omega” You smiled, kneeling down to get on her level.

“It's nice to meet you too, though I have already heard of you since Tech talks about you a lot” She said matter-of-factly.

“Is that right?” You smirked, looking up at Tech, whose cheeks were positively burning.

“I think I may have mentioned your existence a few times” He spoke flatly, but the edge of squeakiness gave him away.

The idea of Tech talking about you, or even just casually mentioning your existence in a passing comment, was enough to set your heart alight. In whatever manner it had truly been, he had at least always remembered you in some way, and that brought the smile to your face.

Hunter then said goodbye to you, and then to Echo, and retreated to the ship. Tech did the same, but instead walked towards you, stopping just in front of you. You had to crane your neck a little to look up at him in the pleasantly close quarters. Had he always been this tall?

“I-” He just looked at you for a while, and you smiled at him, waiting patiently for him to continue. “I have many questions to ask you” He finished.

You chuckled, “Maybe another time?”

Tech couldn't help but sigh, the familiar words making his heart ache, “Another time, yes”

“I think I owe you something now” You said with a small grin, trying to ease the light crease in his brow.

Tech watched your expression change cautiously, “Owe me? I don't think so”

“I mean, if you don't want it then-”

“Well, I must admit, I am curious now”

You laughed at his interjection, smiling at him fondly, “Alright, here you go then”

You placed a hand on his cheek and brought your lips to the other one, placing a lingering kiss to his cheekbone. Tech closed his eyes at the bittersweet feeling of it, and opened them to look back into yours. He placed his own hand to your cheek before the moment could end, and gently rubbed his thumb back and forth, his eyes searching yours. He took a quick glance over your shoulder and saw his brothers all watching him, waiting for him so they could leave, and he chewed the corner of his lip a little as he looked back to you.

“One of these days, I'll give you a proper kiss” He said quietly, making your heart skip a beat, “If you'd like that”

“I'd like that very much” You replied quickly, the grin on your face only growing.

Tech cracked his own small smile. “Another time then” He whispered, and looked over your features for a second longer, before placing a soft kiss to your forehead and walking away.

You watched him leave with an undeniable fondness swelling in your heart. You had felt a certain affection for Tech from the very beginning, and the thrill of the idea of him returning the feelings that you harboured for him brought forth the newfound nature of said feelings.

It went deeper than just liking him in a special way. This emotion you felt when you looked at him, or when you thought of him, was different. The way your heart stopped when he looked at you, the way your breath hitched when he spoke your name, you knew it was different. This was far more profound than a silly crush. The longevity of your affections had caused them to develop into something deeper, more serious.

Something like love.

17BBY, REBELLION BASE

“I need to talk to you”

You looked up from cleaning your workstation and saw Echo striding towards you, determination in his eyes that seemed otherwise tired and possibly even sad.

“What's the matter?” You asked, rushing over to meet him in the middle.

He opened his mouth, trying to find the words, but finding them hard to say, to admit even to himself.

“I… was just on a mission with the batch” He started.

“Oh how are they? How's Tech?” You ask, your mood lifted just a little.

Echo's heart ached, his eyebrows pinching together as his lips formed a hard line. His eyes began to well up slightly and he blinked a few times to rid himself of the tears.

“I'm so sorry” He whispered.

“Why are you sorry?” You asked cautiously.

“Tech… He-” Echo swallowed, “He didn't make it, he fell”

The words hit directly into your heart, and you could almost feel it collapse in on itself.

“Wh- What?” You whimpered out, almost hoping that you had heard him wrong, or that it was just a cruel joke of some kind.

“He… He sacrificed himself for the squad, so that they could live”

You couldn't say anything, couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think. The only thing you could do, was let the feeling of everything crashing down wash over you. It truly felt as if the hinges of your life, the certain something that seemingly held it up, had come loose.

You heard Echo say your name, but it was distant, like he was in another room. Your knees slowly gave in, and he grabbed you as you fell to the ground. He held you in his arms as you cried silently, your tears soaking through his clothes. He stroked your hair comfortingly, whispering assurances about how it was going to be fine, that everything would be alright.

“I never got to tell him, Echo” You choked out eventually, cutting through his smooth words.

“Tell him what?” He asked tenderly, knowing all too well what it was.

“That I… love him” You said, and a small sob finally escaped you.

Somehow it felt even harder to admit now that he was gone. Your love didn't feel as if it was in the past tense. It felt present, current, and that's why the sudden grief stung so much - the love was still lingering, and it didn't feel as if it was planning on leaving anytime soon. After all, it had managed to survive not seeing him for long periods of time, and to your broken heart, it felt the same.

17BBY, IMPERIAL PRISION

You surfaced slowly into consciousness, your eyes trying to open, but to no avail. You could feel your wrists caught in restraints, held above you on either side of your head. You tried to remember what had happened, but everything was fuzzy. You were… at the base. The Bad Batch were there, then… You were attacked? You were running with… Howzer? and then…

You couldn't recall anything past that point, but when your eyes finally opened you had a little idea of what could have happened. Sat opposite you with their arms crossed, was a man dressed head to toe in black armour, like the operative that Rex had captured before the attack on the base. He began talking, but it wasn't initially intelligible.

You shook your head to try and clear the brain fog a little, “Wha-”

“Tell me where the girl is” He demanded. The sound of his voice was so eerily familiar, but it was heavily modified by his helmet.

“Girl?” You questioned through your delirious state, turning your wrists in their restraints. Naturally, you knew who he was talking about, but you weren't going to give up that easily.

“Omega. I saw you talking with her, I know you know her and her brothers. Now, tell me, where would they have taken her?”

You pressed your mouth into a hard line, you could hardly deny it if he had seen you. “I won't talk”

He sighed, standing up and walking over so he stood in front of you, “I don't need to hurt you…” He said your name, and a chill ran up your spine. How could he know your name?

“That's not my name” You narrowed your eyes, looking into his visor.

“You cannot lie to me, Cyare” He spoke, and ran a hand over your cheek, “It would serve you well to tell the truth, it would be a shame to have to ruin this pretty face”

You looked over the man's appearance, for any semblance of individuality, but there was nothing.

“Who are you?” You asked.

“No one that concerns you anymore” The man chuckled, stepping back from you, “Now, tell me, what has become of the defective clones?”

You clenched your jaw in defiance, refusing to spill anything without even a little bit if incentive. You were clearly in some kind of imperial facility, but you weren't in any immediate danger, so you would stay stubborn for as long as you could.

The man spoke your name in a warning tone, his head tilted to the side, “I need you to tell me”

“I wont tell you anything” You spat back at him. He was irritatingly calm and collected, something you had not experienced from the Empire before.

He folded his hands behind his back, humming thoughtfully, “You will. Perhaps, another time”

With that, he turned and pressed the button on the door panel to leave.

You let your head hang down again, letting out a deep breath. If you weren't so tired you were sure that you'd be more panicked, but as your eyes closed and you let the exhaustion take over, you couldn't find it in yourself to be scared. Your body ached, and you needed it to rest if you wanted any chance of getting out of here.

The mysterious operative returned often over the next few days, pushing for answers but always leaving empty handed. He would always threaten violence, but had not touched you once since caressing your face in that first encounter.

He was now stood opposite you as he always was, making another empty threat about how you would be hurt if you didn't answer him.

You rolled your eyes, “Are you ever going to hold true to that promise?”

He stayed silent, and you laughed a little.

“Come on, I dare you, hurt me” You urged, jutting your chin out.

You were so tired of this, and he was obviously worn out by your defiance as well.

“I told you” He spoke quietly, “The last thing I would ever mean to do is hurt you”

Your heart stopped, and your eyes went wide as the familiar voice finally placed itself, hearing the same words that it had said all those years ago.

“It can't be, you-”

The man reached up and took off his helmet with a short hiss. He looked different, his face scarred and weary, his goggles nowhere to be seen, but it was undeniably him. The only thing that could have convinced you otherwise was the fact that his eyes didn't have the youthful sparkle they always seemed to in the past. Instead, they looked tired, completely worn down, and cold.

“Tech” You whispered, your heart beating impossibly fast in your chest.

He stepped closer, “I do not go by that name anymore”

On instinct, your eyes began to water, and a single tear ran down your cheek, “What are you doing here? You- You're with the Empire?”

He didn't reply, but he took off a glove and brought his hand to your face to wipe your tear away. You closed your eyes, and he let his hand remain on your cheek, rubbing your cheekbone lightly.

“I need you to tell me what I want to know” He spoke so softly now, and you opened your eyes and look up into his. They were still so inviting despite their unfamiliar coldness.

“Tech, why are you doing this?”

He didn't reply again, but brought his other hand to your cheek and held your face gently, his own just in front of yours, “Tell me”

“I can't” You choked out, brow furrowed as he ignored your questions.

“Please, Cyare. They will hurt you if you don't talk”

“Let them” You said firmly, tugging your face from his hands, “I won't betray your brothers”

Tech just watched you for a moment before opening his mouth again.

“So be it”

He put his helmet back on and left the room, leaving you alone with the revelation that the man you had been in love with was not only alive, but under the control of the Empire, the very thing you had dedicated your life to defeating.

The following day, when you lifted your head to see Tech enter your cell, he was now joined by an Imperial officer, and a floating droid that had a thin needle protruding from it. You understood all too well what this droid was, what it was used for, and you pulled at your restraints, a string of grunts escaping your lips.

“Resisting will do you no good” The Imperial officer chuckled, standing before you as the droid positioned itself to your left.

Tech couldn't watch. He kept his head up, appearing to be looking straight through you, but he had to close his eyes. Your screams were enough. You were resisting at every turn, and Tech just wished you would relent so that he wouldn't have to listen to the awful sounds that escaped you. The sounds that cut deep through his conditioning and hit his very soul, causing his chest to ache.

“Please, Tech. Make them stop” You cried hopelessly, and he squeezed his eyes closed even further, trying to block everything out.

To you, he looked cold, unmoving, and even after the Imperial had left with the droid as you had not let anything slip, he didn't budge at all.

After a few minutes of quiet, the only sound that was heard being your heavy breathing, he stepped forwards, taking off his helmet and letting it drop to the floor. He reached up and let you down from your restraints, catching your body as it fell down, limp with exhaustion. He knelt on the floor, his hand on the back of your head as it rested in his lap.

Your eyes fluttered open to see his face. He looked undeniably remorseful, and his eyes had a little amount of that special spark that they used to. You reached up and touched his face, causing his eyes to close with a shaky breath.

“What have they done to you Tech?” You whispered, your throat raw from shouting.

He didn't speak, but his heart clenched in his chest, every word you spoke bringing him further from the conditioning he had been subjected to to make him the way he was.

“How you could you let them do this to your brothers? To me? Do you not care about me at all?”

His eyes were now glassy when he opened them and looked down at you. He leant down and brought his forehead to yours, “I care for you more than you know”

Your tears were streaming down your face, “Then why are you doing this?”

Looking so deeply into your teary eyes, something in him finally snapped. He had a moment of intense clarity, fighting through his conditioning and realising the severity of his actions, of who he now was, who he had been forced to become.

He helped you stand before tying you back up in your restraints, much to your confusion.

You were sobbing now, your body and mind heavy with exhaustion, “Tech, please. Please stop this”

“I will come back for you, Cyare” He whispered, bringing his forehead back to yours with a hand on the back of your head, “I will get you out of here, I promise”

He stepped back, and was about to put his helmet back on, but he looked up to you once more.

“I am so very sorry”

You saw a tear slip from his eye, and he then placed his helmet on his head, leaving you alone once more.

Holding true to his promise, Tech returned that night. He unclipped your restraints, and you crumbled to your knees.

“Come on Cyar'ika, I'm going to get you out of here” He said gently, helping you to stand.

You tried to get a good footing, but your legs were too weak, and you fell into him. Without needing to be told, he picked you up, slinging an arm behind your back and the other under your knees. You rested your hands on his chest, looking up at his helmeted face and feeling unsure about his motivations. You were too tired to inquire though, so you just leaned your head against his shoulder and let him take you wherever he was going.

Tech carried you through the corridors of the prison, looking around corners and making sure to take the route where there would be the least guards. He constantly made sure you were still with him, as you kept slipping in and out of consciousness, so he'd place his fingers against your pulse point.

He slammed his hand into the door panel, and entered the elevator that would take you to the surface. The doors slid closed and he looked down at you, and behind his mask, he couldn't help but smile.

You looked so peaceful, so calm, so… beautiful.

For the first time, he let himself think of the future. He would get you out of here, and then he'd be free to think about his future. Maybe he'd re-join his brothers on Pabu, maybe… you would come with him. He hoped you could forgive him for the mistakes he'd made.

The doors opened, and Tech stepped out, pacing quickly across the landing platform to the nearest ship. Before he could make it there though, a bright light was shone on the pair of you from above.

“Trooper, put the prisoner down” A voice spoke through a loudspeaker, and he held you tightly in defiance.

He continued towards the transport, but was stopped in his place as blaster fire ripped through the air. His leg gave way as one of the shots grazed him, and he collapsed onto his knee, keeping you close to his chest so you wouldn’t hit the ground. He heard you let out a strangled gasp, and his heart sunk to his feet.

He pulled back from you, and sure enough, a blaster bolt had ripped straight into your chest.

He began panicking instantly, his breath quick and ragged, his heart stuttering and beating at an uneven pace. He let you rest in his lap, looking up to him through half lidded eyes that told him what he already knew to be true.

“No” He said assuredly, “You’re fine, you’re okay”

“Tech” You whispered.

“Everything will be fine” He bit into his bottom lip, completely in denial of what was happening.

“Tech” You said more firmly, though your voice was croaky, “It’s okay”

“It is not okay!” He exclaimed, tears spilling from his eyes that had quickly welled up.

He just watched you in disbelief, now unable to control the sobs that left his mouth. He had never cried so hard at anything in his life, but right now it felt as if everything was ending when it had only barely just begun.

“I'm so sorry Cyare, for everything” He whispered, his heart aching when you gave him a half-hearted smile.

“I know Tech, I know” You said breathlessly, the feeling of the blaster bolt to your heart ripping any strength from you.

Tech held your body close to him as the life slipped from you.

“It shouldn't have been like this, I should've protected you” He sobbed into your chest.

You pulled his head back and hooked your fingers under the edge of his helmet, taking it off his head so you could look into his eyes. You placed your hand on the side of his scarred cheek, and he leaned into it savouring your warm touch while he still could.

“It's okay Tech, I forgive you”

He didn't even think, he didn’t want to. Instead he just brought his lips to yours, the salty taste of his tears finding your tongue. The kiss was perfect, yet so bittersweet. It was something you had both waited years for, but now it would be one of the last moments you would ever share together. Tech kissed you so fervently, pouring every inch of his being into you, connecting his soul to yours, and in return you gave everything you had, even as it was slipping away.

He didn’t want it to end, and neither did you, but you knew your time was limited, and you had something you needed to say. You had thought that you had missed your chance before, and you’d be damned if you missed it now, in your final moments.

“Tech” You whispered, pulling away from him and looking into his glassy eyes, “I love you”

He let out a choked sob and brought his forehead to yours, “I love you too Cyar’ika, I always will”

His forehead rested against yours as you slipped away. He was whispering apologies, his eyes closed, unable to look into your eyes and see the light leave them. After a few moments, your hand fell from his face, and that's when he knew you were gone.

Tech held you close to him for a moment longer before his blood began boiling with rage. He laid your lifeless body against the ground, closing your eyes and making sure you could be comfortable even in death.

He stood, a flame burning inside of him that spread throughout his limbs, urging his fingers to find the pair of blasters that sat at his hip. He unholstered them just as blaster fire once more resumed. He dodged what he could, shooting the stormtroopers that closed in on him and depleting their numbers single-handedly, but his luck was eventually going to run out, and he knew that.

The first shot was to his shoulder, sending him stumbling backwards, but he fought through the searing pain and continued knocking down the soldiers. The second shot placed itself in his knee and he cried out as it gave way and he fell to his other knee, still fighting for his life. The third and fourth shots were the true nail in the coffin, both of them finding his chest and ripping him open as you had been. Even though he had armour, it was not enough to withstand two blaster bolts to the heart.

He fell forwards, his body sprawled on the floor unceremoniously. He lifted his head just a little to look towards your body. He grasped ahead of him and found purchase on your hand, still warm as if you were there comforting him through death as he had for you.

He laid down on his back as he saw his life flashing before his eyes, your hand clasped in his, and he mourned the life that could have been. Perhaps in another life, another time, things would have ended differently.

divider from this post <3

[screamingintothestarss]

AAAA omg this means so much coming from you, thank you!!! we just love complicated emotions 🙃 💙

dark blue

summary: you’re hurting, and you don’t know if you can let hunter in

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: mature (17+)

warnings: mentions of drinking and alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of vomiting, angst, hurt with comfort, heavy feelings, kissing, non-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy, mature themes in general, mutual pining, swearing, reader kinda sucks with emotions

word count: 3.9k

notes: bone apple teeth! dies

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Your arm hangs over the tub's porcelain edge, beads of water streaking down the skin like rain. Bubbles and foam have long dissolved, yet you remain uncomfortably unmoving, eyes waterlogged and heavy. You don’t know how long you’ve been submerged, your skin beginning to prune and wrinkle much like your demeanor tonight. The weight of your loathing pulls down on your eyes, and you let them slip closed. 

Pulsing lights, loud music, and a mass of writhing bodies replay under your eyelids. Your stomach sours, and the feeling claws up your throat like the drink you tossed back two hours ago. A drunken holo, strong hands, and the heady scent of him remind you of why you’re even here. You sink further down into the tub, hoping that somehow the water will wash away your guilt.

You hiss as a raw ankle brushes along the bottom; you’d figured those strappy heels weren’t a good idea, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. You had a good time, you think. You had a good time, but the tears streaming down your face held their own narrative. You let out a choked sob, but before you can consider pulling it together, a gentle knock at the door has you reeling.

“Are you okay?” Hunter’s voice comes through muffled from behind the door. His tone is dripping with worry, and the knot in your stomach tightens. 

Are you okay? The question hangs over your head like a forbidden fruit, daring you to bite. You want to sink your teeth in and spill your guts–to tell him that you're not okay and that you need him, that you want-

He calls your name, and you hear his hand settling on the door's console. His concern nearly breaks your heart.

A scratchy "fine" is all you can muster. You're trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, all jagged and misshapen, but your hands are beginning to bleed. 

You can still feel him hovering behind the door, the air heavy enough to cut through. You can’t trust yourself to say anything else. 

He knows he’s hovering; he knows that you know he’s hovering. He shouldn’t be, though. He should be giving you the space you need right now, not rolling a question in between his teeth. He swallows it, choosing to leave you be, and pads back over into the living room.

A holomovie plays on the television, but he pays it no mind. 

I'm losing it, he thinks, brown-grey eyes flitting towards the bathroom door every few seconds. His hands unconsciously twirl a pen in between deft fingers, senses on the cusp of overload. Normally the thought of you filled him with something warm and saccharine, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. But now, with you being in the state that you're in, he can't help but feel prickly and uncomfortable. 

He'd been asleep when he got the call, eyes glossed over, squinting over a blue comlink. Your slurred voice and drunken divulgences had him vertiginous, chest cracking open and hands all clammy. You hadn't spoken to each other since the misunderstanding, as you had put it, from two weeks ago. You said that you wanted your space, and he respected that. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to just hold you. He's staring at the door, he realizes, unconsciously listening for any sign of you. 

He's your Jedi Knight; your protector. Without a doubt, he'd go to war for you, hands all filthy and bloodied and split if it meant yours could remain clean. 

It was also why he felt like utter shit when he pulled up to the bar to see you slumped over inside a comm booth. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Fuck," he breathes, clambering out of his speeder and making his way to you. He swears he's never moved faster in his life, the cuffs of his jeans dampening from each wet slap of his boots on the pavement. He approaches the glass doors, and his eyes focus on your watery form. The tendons in his heart snap. 

Your face is ruddy and sticky with sweat, strands of hair clinging to your forehead like a halo. A pretty dress is smattered with stains, no doubt from a drink, or drinks, that you'd likely spilled on yourself. Tears streak your face, taking what was left of your makeup with them.

You're a mess.

Without hesitation, he hooks his arm under your knees and uses the other to support your back. He shifts on his weight, and your cheek lazily slumps against his firm chest.

"I've got you," he breathes. "I've got you." 

His steps are careful, calculated. Like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he cradles you with reverence. He lays you down gently in the backseat, sliding his jacket down strong arms and draping it over your pretty figure. Calloused fingers brush away the wisps of hair stuck to your face, and you begin to stir.

Your head lolls to the side, and a choked groan rolls out of your throat. You feel like a hammer is cracking down against your skull, a poisonous rhythm that has you almost spilling the contents of tonight on rubber floor liner. 

Hunter scrambles to the middle console, plucking a bottle from the cupholder. You feel a familiar hand on your arm, calm and inviting; the opposite of how you're feeling right now. His warmth is the eye of your storm, and you're craving more. 

"Hey," he rasps, his timbre clattering around in your ears, replacing the loud thump thump thumping of your heart. It's gentle and sweet, and your bleary eyes find his amidst a dark sky and flashing lights. 

"Hunt..." is all you can say, the word clawing its way through your teeth. 

A strong hand slides in between your shoulder blades, and slowly sits you up. The bottle of something is pressed to your lips, and you part them. The liquid runs down your throat; an oasis in a desert, it brings you back to life. 

"I'm gonna take us home, okay?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Home. Even inebriated, his words had nearly knocked you flat on your ass. This wasn't your home, it was his. You were sitting in his bathtub, in his bathroom: in his home. 

He opened himself up to you in ways you didn't think possible; you held the keys to his heart, locked the door, and ran. 

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him too. He was so sure, so hopeful that the stars had aligned it for you both. He was so sure that your souls had woven themselves together, an intricate tapestry of adoration and understanding no saber could cut through. Maybe the seams weren't strong enough.

Your watery reflection stares back at you, and your lungs constrict.

You can't do this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You open the door, a cloud of hot steam following you as you pad towards the living room. Hunter had given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts to wear, and the fabric clings awkwardly to your frame.

Hunter sits on the sofa, pretending to watch the TV. 

"Didn't know you had a thing for fixer-uppers," you tease. Your heart's not in it, but you want to break through the tension somehow. You miss the way he takes a breath before facing you.

You're fully clothed, yet you feel so naked in front of him. You want to cover up, throwing a flustered “Get out!” over your shoulder whilst you find something to conceal your vulnerability with.

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to your light. You're swallowed by his shirt and his shorts, and it all begins to feel so domestic. He can't help it, letting his mind wander into uncharted territory–a thick jungle of things said and unsaid. Maybe he could've woken up to the sight of you in it, your face squished into plush pillows, serene as ever. Maybe he could've wrapped his arms around you, bunching the fabric up to your waist, tracing the sultry curve of thigh. He'd take care of you, love you the way you needed, the way you deserved.

Maybe he could've been something more to you.

You're melting under his gaze, white-hot electricity coursing through your veins. Your mouth opens.

"I'm-"

"Hey, I-"

You both speak at the same time; your lips clamp shut, and he does the same. He stares at you, silently begging you to say something. You take the hint.

"I'm sorry." The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, the grit of your guilt spilling over. Every nerve in your body is lit ablaze, and you're too wrecked to snuff them out. 

Like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, you want to run. You're looking this way and that, arms self-soothingly folded over your torso. You rock on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do with yourself.  

He sighs, thick and heavy. "Do you know what could've happened to you?" 

The implications are all there. Maker knows what could've happened had you not dialed his number. And you knew it. 

You're quiet. You don't know what else to say; what else is there to say?

Wordlessly, he pads over to you, his familiar warmth spreading across your shoulders and leading you toward the sofa. He sits you down, and it's frustratingly gentle.

"Are you hungry?" 

"No." The word darts through your teeth quicker than you expect, and it makes you wince. 

He chuckles at that. "Liar."

You let out a small laugh through your nose, breezy and cool. He'd always been able to read you; his senses were always keen when it came to you, and you swore he knew you better than you knew yourself at times. Like some sort of omniscient deity, he could see right through you, cutting through all the weeds and all the bullshit. 

But you couldn't handle that right now.

He's in the kitchen, making a sandwich, you think. You laugh to yourself, it's tight, but the thoughts of him stumbling around in the kitchen make you a little warmer. 

He'd always been a terrible cook, fumbling around everywhere and making a mess of himself. He was like a rancor in a china shop, utter destruction following in his wake. He'd given up on trying to learn, and you'd given up on trying to teach him. 

You tentatively turn towards the open kitchen, and then you're staring. Your eyes trace over his features; like a painter studying his muse, you note every detail, every stroke of the brush you'd need to make. Deep brown eyes are hyper-focused, framed by long brown locks curling down to his shoulders, a red bandana holding it all together. A strong aquiline nose crests over a chiseled face and stubbled jaw; maker, he was beautiful. 

You assumed he was a bit of a player when you first met; a lethal combo of face and body that left a string of holo-frequencies scrawled onto sticky notes and a series of romantic escapades; and maybe you were right. He'd been in and out of bedrooms before, maybe in search of the same thing you were: but you didn't even know what that was yet. 

You got to know him, peeling back all the layers and fluff and stripping him down to the core. You realized just how wrong you had him. He was always a gentleman, a gemstone in the dirt. He never played games or messed around for the hell of it; he was real. You weren't used to that.

Maybe it's why the pool of regret in your stomach swallowed you whole tonight, leaving you with a bruised ankle and a stained dress. 

You slump against plush cushions, heart heavy and mind spasming. You're tired in every sense of the word, the gears in your head creaking to a halt; you've got no juice left. 

Hunter returns from the kitchen, handing you a homemade sandwich and a bag of chips. 

"Thank you," you tell him. You don't think you've ever been more thankful for someone. He smiles at you, and it's warm–something you'd wrap in foil and save for later.

"Of course." He says it like it's obvious. Obvious that he'd be there for you when you needed him; he always was. 

He sits beside you on the sofa stealing shy glances at your side profile, and it hurts him. It hurts knowing that you would never want him in the way that he wanted you. He'd remain on the backburner then, starting the gas and keeping you warm if that's what you wanted. 

You catch him staring at you, and you stare right back. He knew you, but you'd argue you knew him better. His eyes are trying to tell you something, and that knot in your stomach returns. 

He wants to talk about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You stare into the dark blue of the sky, cool and vast like the deep end of a pool; you want to dive in and drown in it. Stars are all smattered against the surface as if someone had flicked a paint brush against it, and you try to reach up and grab one.

"Not getting lost up there are you?" a voice says to your right, and you nearly jump ten feet in the air.

"Shit-!"

"M'sorry," Hunter laughs, and it instantly dissolves your annoyance. "Was gonna ask if you were ready to go?" His eyes flash down on you, and you're beginning to get lost in hues of brown and gold.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of cobwebs and butterflies before you answer. "Yeah," you breathe. "You made reservations, right?" "

"Yeah, ten o'clock." 

Then you're staring at each other. Something in the air shifts, and you both know it. These little moments you've had with each other were happening more often; like the steady drip of water in a bucket, you'd walked away for a second, and now it's on the brink of overflow. 

The woody scent of his cologne fries your senses, and you try to keep your eyes from shamelessly ravaging his form. 

But Hunter's unabashed, unshameful without remorse. His eyes flit up and down your curves, taking in how your dress hugs you in all the right places.  You playfully slap his arm.

"Quit that!" But you don't mean it, a smile spreading across your face like butter. 

He meets your eyes again, and he doesn't hear you call his name over the thumping of his heart. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, your line cast.

"Hunter?" His name falls from your lips again, and he's just staring; your presence alone is a siren's call, and he's about to end up floating in the depths below. 

He has to do this, he thinks. He's been waiting for the perfect time, an opportunity to give himself over to you; to tell you how you've infiltrated his very core, molding it into your shape. To tell you how often he thinks of you, his head full of sugar and cotton and everything you.

 The tick tick tick of the clock is winding down, and he's falling behind. 

"Hunt-"

"I love you!”

You're frozen. The fire lit in your belly is put out cold, and now you're left shaking. 

Fuck.

The words don't sit in your stomach right, twisting and turning and gnawing at you as they settle to the bottom. They wrap themselves around your neck and squeeze. His confession shouldn't be coming as a surprise to you; the signs were always there, big bold letters and all: I love you.

You hold onto the balcony railing in an attempt to ground yourself. A hand cools the white-hot grip you have on the metal bars.

"Are you okay?" His voice is worried–terrified, even. He fucked up. The timing was all wrong; he should've told you sooner, or later. Maybe he was being selfish, unfairly assuming your heart did rounds in your ears when you were around him. Maybe he-

"I can't do this." Your voice comes out creaky and broken, and Hunter feels his chest cave in. 

He feels awful, the kind that leaves you with cracked ribs and a broken jaw. He took a risk, diving into those dark depths, and ended up being pulled straight under. 

But he was so sure.

He does what does best; he comforts you. Large palms caress your shoulders as they begin to shake, the weight of his words settling in the gaps. 

"I'm so sorry," he's telling you, and it's so soft and sincere it has you heaving. "I'm sorry…I never meant to hurt you." 

That seals it, and you're sobbing even harder: all hot tears and a snotty nose. 

You're no stranger to hurt. You'd tried your hand at relationships before, throwing darts at the board until something stuck. You'd accounted for the grit and grime: the song and dance of trying to love someone else, except you had two left feet. Once the music stopped, you'd turn over, your partner long gone. 

And so you buried the dartboard along with everything else, packing it away into the dirt like cement, and walked away. 

And then he came along.

All charm and smolder, sweeping you off of your feet with ease. You both were like magnets; there was no push and pull, no tugging on a rope or trying to keep him tethered, he was always drawn to you. He understood you, believed in you. He introduced you to his brothers and sister, giving you a family of your own; something to always keep close to your heart. 

And you didn’t want to lose that.

Love just erodes things, in your eyes. 

“Just go.” It comes out defeated, pathetic. A boulder in your throat, you’re barely able to say the words, much less to him. You do what you do best: run away. 

He can’t be hearing you correctly. He lets go of you, much to his chagrin, and steps away. A strong jaw locks–petrified. He’d planted the seeds of you in his heart, and you’d ripped them out by the root. Your words clatter around in his head, but he reigns them in and takes a good look:

This isn’t you. 

“What’s going on?” He says it as gently as he can, like soothing a wounded animal, he doesn’t want to scare you away any more than he already has. 

You can’t look him in the eye. Bile edges on your teeth and your next words come out venomous: “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Yes, I do.

“Just leave me alone-”

Please don’t go.

“I just can’t-”

I will, for you.

Like a child learning to speak, your words trip and tumble over themselves. There’s too much to say, that grime still under your fingernails. How do you articulate two years of pain? You feel him stepping closer to you, and that gnawing urge to flee at the base of your skull chews into your brain. Rough palms curl around your arms, and he turns you around so that you’re facing him. He stares into watery red eyes and feels his heart split. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he’s far from that, but he just needs to know–to understand what all of this meant to you. But he needs to check in on you first; like he always has. 

“Tell me what’s wrong…please?” He’s pleading with you, and you feel sick. You know you’re pushing him away, culling peonies and roses, and leaving nothing but dirt. You meet his eyes: brown, gold, and gray. 

He bristles as if caught off guard, but he recovers just as quickly. His lips part, the question practically hanging out of his mouth.

“Are you afraid?”

You shut down after that. He tries to reel you back in, but you sever the line. He begs you for an answer, an explanation, but you can’t give him one even if you want to. Push and pull, push and pull; you tell him that you want your space, and leave him alone on that balcony. He shatters, and you step on the jagged pieces as you walk away. 

He stares up into the sky, that vast dark blue, stars reflecting in teary hues of brown and grey. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I just-”

“I am.” You interject; like the waves on Kamino, your voice rolls out uneasy and turbulent. He’s giving you a quizzical look, and you purge your head of cotton. “Afraid, I mean.”

He’s staring at you, or rather into you, silently begging you to continue. You swallow.

“I don’t…I don’t know how…” 

You grow hot, anxiety settling uncomfortably in your stomach like a bad meal. You’re meeting his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to break down into tears. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to wave a white flag, and scream “I surrender!” But you don’t. Not this time.

“I know that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest, or give you a reason why. I’m sorry that I left you alone, and I’m sorry that you had to save my ass tonight. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me because you do.” You’re sobbing at this point, and you feel him envelop you, all warmth and compassion, but you keep going, spilling your guts into his shoulder. 

“I’m scared, Hunter. Scared that if I tell you I love you too, you won’t be there when I roll over in the morning.” You break through the dirt and the grime and the weeds, telling him what sat heavy on your chest for the past two weeks. Cutting through the vines and underbrush, you find your flowers, and pick one just for him. 

“I love you, Hunter.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his orbit. You cradle his cheek, hard and defined, and it fits so perfectly in your palm. You start tracing his features with your thumb, saving every bump, dip, and hollow in your memory–locking it away in your heart. 

Clothes are strewn around the room from the heat of your passion; you told him loved him, and he decided to show you how much he loved you. There was a warmth building up inside of him, and he wanted to share it with you.

You’re naked, but in a way feels good, in the way that gives you hickies and butterflies. He’s streaked by hues of dark blue, and you can’t help but think of the night sky: bold, bright, and beautiful. He’s beautiful. You press soft lips to his forehead, and he unconsciously pulls you closer. 

Your heart swells with gratitude; after all of it, he stuck by you. Had the roles been reversed, you knew that he would’ve never left you alone on that balcony, reaching into the stars by yourself. He pried open your ribs, searching for your heart when you couldn’t do it yourself. He saw you bleeding and carved out pieces of himself to patch you up with. You close your eyes, and the only thing behind them are pictures of both of you.

He’s still there when you roll over in the morning.

[screamingintothestarss]

thank you 😭 this means a lot, you have no idea 💙

dark blue

summary: you’re hurting, and you don’t know if you can let hunter in

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: mature (17+)

warnings: mentions of drinking and alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of vomiting, angst, hurt with comfort, heavy feelings, kissing, non-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy, mature themes in general, mutual pining, swearing, reader kinda sucks with emotions

word count: 3.9k

notes: bone apple teeth! dies

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Your arm hangs over the tub's porcelain edge, beads of water streaking down the skin like rain. Bubbles and foam have long dissolved, yet you remain uncomfortably unmoving, eyes waterlogged and heavy. You don’t know how long you’ve been submerged, your skin beginning to prune and wrinkle much like your demeanor tonight. The weight of your loathing pulls down on your eyes, and you let them slip closed. 

Pulsing lights, loud music, and a mass of writhing bodies replay under your eyelids. Your stomach sours, and the feeling claws up your throat like the drink you tossed back two hours ago. A drunken holo, strong hands, and the heady scent of him remind you of why you’re even here. You sink further down into the tub, hoping that somehow the water will wash away your guilt.

You hiss as a raw ankle brushes along the bottom; you’d figured those strappy heels weren’t a good idea, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. You had a good time, you think. You had a good time, but the tears streaming down your face held their own narrative. You let out a choked sob, but before you can consider pulling it together, a gentle knock at the door has you reeling.

“Are you okay?” Hunter’s voice comes through muffled from behind the door. His tone is dripping with worry, and the knot in your stomach tightens. 

Are you okay? The question hangs over your head like a forbidden fruit, daring you to bite. You want to sink your teeth in and spill your guts–to tell him that you're not okay and that you need him, that you want-

He calls your name, and you hear his hand settling on the door's console. His concern nearly breaks your heart.

A scratchy "fine" is all you can muster. You're trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, all jagged and misshapen, but your hands are beginning to bleed. 

You can still feel him hovering behind the door, the air heavy enough to cut through. You can’t trust yourself to say anything else. 

He knows he’s hovering; he knows that you know he’s hovering. He shouldn’t be, though. He should be giving you the space you need right now, not rolling a question in between his teeth. He swallows it, choosing to leave you be, and pads back over into the living room.

A holomovie plays on the television, but he pays it no mind. 

I'm losing it, he thinks, brown-grey eyes flitting towards the bathroom door every few seconds. His hands unconsciously twirl a pen in between deft fingers, senses on the cusp of overload. Normally the thought of you filled him with something warm and saccharine, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. But now, with you being in the state that you're in, he can't help but feel prickly and uncomfortable. 

He'd been asleep when he got the call, eyes glossed over, squinting over a blue comlink. Your slurred voice and drunken divulgences had him vertiginous, chest cracking open and hands all clammy. You hadn't spoken to each other since the misunderstanding, as you had put it, from two weeks ago. You said that you wanted your space, and he respected that. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to just hold you. He's staring at the door, he realizes, unconsciously listening for any sign of you. 

He's your Jedi Knight; your protector. Without a doubt, he'd go to war for you, hands all filthy and bloodied and split if it meant yours could remain clean. 

It was also why he felt like utter shit when he pulled up to the bar to see you slumped over inside a comm booth. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Fuck," he breathes, clambering out of his speeder and making his way to you. He swears he's never moved faster in his life, the cuffs of his jeans dampening from each wet slap of his boots on the pavement. He approaches the glass doors, and his eyes focus on your watery form. The tendons in his heart snap. 

Your face is ruddy and sticky with sweat, strands of hair clinging to your forehead like a halo. A pretty dress is smattered with stains, no doubt from a drink, or drinks, that you'd likely spilled on yourself. Tears streak your face, taking what was left of your makeup with them.

You're a mess.

Without hesitation, he hooks his arm under your knees and uses the other to support your back. He shifts on his weight, and your cheek lazily slumps against his firm chest.

"I've got you," he breathes. "I've got you." 

His steps are careful, calculated. Like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he cradles you with reverence. He lays you down gently in the backseat, sliding his jacket down strong arms and draping it over your pretty figure. Calloused fingers brush away the wisps of hair stuck to your face, and you begin to stir.

Your head lolls to the side, and a choked groan rolls out of your throat. You feel like a hammer is cracking down against your skull, a poisonous rhythm that has you almost spilling the contents of tonight on rubber floor liner. 

Hunter scrambles to the middle console, plucking a bottle from the cupholder. You feel a familiar hand on your arm, calm and inviting; the opposite of how you're feeling right now. His warmth is the eye of your storm, and you're craving more. 

"Hey," he rasps, his timbre clattering around in your ears, replacing the loud thump thump thumping of your heart. It's gentle and sweet, and your bleary eyes find his amidst a dark sky and flashing lights. 

"Hunt..." is all you can say, the word clawing its way through your teeth. 

A strong hand slides in between your shoulder blades, and slowly sits you up. The bottle of something is pressed to your lips, and you part them. The liquid runs down your throat; an oasis in a desert, it brings you back to life. 

"I'm gonna take us home, okay?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Home. Even inebriated, his words had nearly knocked you flat on your ass. This wasn't your home, it was his. You were sitting in his bathtub, in his bathroom: in his home. 

He opened himself up to you in ways you didn't think possible; you held the keys to his heart, locked the door, and ran. 

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him too. He was so sure, so hopeful that the stars had aligned it for you both. He was so sure that your souls had woven themselves together, an intricate tapestry of adoration and understanding no saber could cut through. Maybe the seams weren't strong enough.

Your watery reflection stares back at you, and your lungs constrict.

You can't do this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You open the door, a cloud of hot steam following you as you pad towards the living room. Hunter had given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts to wear, and the fabric clings awkwardly to your frame.

Hunter sits on the sofa, pretending to watch the TV. 

"Didn't know you had a thing for fixer-uppers," you tease. Your heart's not in it, but you want to break through the tension somehow. You miss the way he takes a breath before facing you.

You're fully clothed, yet you feel so naked in front of him. You want to cover up, throwing a flustered “Get out!” over your shoulder whilst you find something to conceal your vulnerability with.

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to your light. You're swallowed by his shirt and his shorts, and it all begins to feel so domestic. He can't help it, letting his mind wander into uncharted territory–a thick jungle of things said and unsaid. Maybe he could've woken up to the sight of you in it, your face squished into plush pillows, serene as ever. Maybe he could've wrapped his arms around you, bunching the fabric up to your waist, tracing the sultry curve of thigh. He'd take care of you, love you the way you needed, the way you deserved.

Maybe he could've been something more to you.

You're melting under his gaze, white-hot electricity coursing through your veins. Your mouth opens.

"I'm-"

"Hey, I-"

You both speak at the same time; your lips clamp shut, and he does the same. He stares at you, silently begging you to say something. You take the hint.

"I'm sorry." The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, the grit of your guilt spilling over. Every nerve in your body is lit ablaze, and you're too wrecked to snuff them out. 

Like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, you want to run. You're looking this way and that, arms self-soothingly folded over your torso. You rock on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do with yourself.  

He sighs, thick and heavy. "Do you know what could've happened to you?" 

The implications are all there. Maker knows what could've happened had you not dialed his number. And you knew it. 

You're quiet. You don't know what else to say; what else is there to say?

Wordlessly, he pads over to you, his familiar warmth spreading across your shoulders and leading you toward the sofa. He sits you down, and it's frustratingly gentle.

"Are you hungry?" 

"No." The word darts through your teeth quicker than you expect, and it makes you wince. 

He chuckles at that. "Liar."

You let out a small laugh through your nose, breezy and cool. He'd always been able to read you; his senses were always keen when it came to you, and you swore he knew you better than you knew yourself at times. Like some sort of omniscient deity, he could see right through you, cutting through all the weeds and all the bullshit. 

But you couldn't handle that right now.

He's in the kitchen, making a sandwich, you think. You laugh to yourself, it's tight, but the thoughts of him stumbling around in the kitchen make you a little warmer. 

He'd always been a terrible cook, fumbling around everywhere and making a mess of himself. He was like a rancor in a china shop, utter destruction following in his wake. He'd given up on trying to learn, and you'd given up on trying to teach him. 

You tentatively turn towards the open kitchen, and then you're staring. Your eyes trace over his features; like a painter studying his muse, you note every detail, every stroke of the brush you'd need to make. Deep brown eyes are hyper-focused, framed by long brown locks curling down to his shoulders, a red bandana holding it all together. A strong aquiline nose crests over a chiseled face and stubbled jaw; maker, he was beautiful. 

You assumed he was a bit of a player when you first met; a lethal combo of face and body that left a string of holo-frequencies scrawled onto sticky notes and a series of romantic escapades; and maybe you were right. He'd been in and out of bedrooms before, maybe in search of the same thing you were: but you didn't even know what that was yet. 

You got to know him, peeling back all the layers and fluff and stripping him down to the core. You realized just how wrong you had him. He was always a gentleman, a gemstone in the dirt. He never played games or messed around for the hell of it; he was real. You weren't used to that.

Maybe it's why the pool of regret in your stomach swallowed you whole tonight, leaving you with a bruised ankle and a stained dress. 

You slump against plush cushions, heart heavy and mind spasming. You're tired in every sense of the word, the gears in your head creaking to a halt; you've got no juice left. 

Hunter returns from the kitchen, handing you a homemade sandwich and a bag of chips. 

"Thank you," you tell him. You don't think you've ever been more thankful for someone. He smiles at you, and it's warm–something you'd wrap in foil and save for later.

"Of course." He says it like it's obvious. Obvious that he'd be there for you when you needed him; he always was. 

He sits beside you on the sofa stealing shy glances at your side profile, and it hurts him. It hurts knowing that you would never want him in the way that he wanted you. He'd remain on the backburner then, starting the gas and keeping you warm if that's what you wanted. 

You catch him staring at you, and you stare right back. He knew you, but you'd argue you knew him better. His eyes are trying to tell you something, and that knot in your stomach returns. 

He wants to talk about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You stare into the dark blue of the sky, cool and vast like the deep end of a pool; you want to dive in and drown in it. Stars are all smattered against the surface as if someone had flicked a paint brush against it, and you try to reach up and grab one.

"Not getting lost up there are you?" a voice says to your right, and you nearly jump ten feet in the air.

"Shit-!"

"M'sorry," Hunter laughs, and it instantly dissolves your annoyance. "Was gonna ask if you were ready to go?" His eyes flash down on you, and you're beginning to get lost in hues of brown and gold.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of cobwebs and butterflies before you answer. "Yeah," you breathe. "You made reservations, right?" "

"Yeah, ten o'clock." 

Then you're staring at each other. Something in the air shifts, and you both know it. These little moments you've had with each other were happening more often; like the steady drip of water in a bucket, you'd walked away for a second, and now it's on the brink of overflow. 

The woody scent of his cologne fries your senses, and you try to keep your eyes from shamelessly ravaging his form. 

But Hunter's unabashed, unshameful without remorse. His eyes flit up and down your curves, taking in how your dress hugs you in all the right places.  You playfully slap his arm.

"Quit that!" But you don't mean it, a smile spreading across your face like butter. 

He meets your eyes again, and he doesn't hear you call his name over the thumping of his heart. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, your line cast.

"Hunter?" His name falls from your lips again, and he's just staring; your presence alone is a siren's call, and he's about to end up floating in the depths below. 

He has to do this, he thinks. He's been waiting for the perfect time, an opportunity to give himself over to you; to tell you how you've infiltrated his very core, molding it into your shape. To tell you how often he thinks of you, his head full of sugar and cotton and everything you.

 The tick tick tick of the clock is winding down, and he's falling behind. 

"Hunt-"

"I love you!”

You're frozen. The fire lit in your belly is put out cold, and now you're left shaking. 

Fuck.

The words don't sit in your stomach right, twisting and turning and gnawing at you as they settle to the bottom. They wrap themselves around your neck and squeeze. His confession shouldn't be coming as a surprise to you; the signs were always there, big bold letters and all: I love you.

You hold onto the balcony railing in an attempt to ground yourself. A hand cools the white-hot grip you have on the metal bars.

"Are you okay?" His voice is worried–terrified, even. He fucked up. The timing was all wrong; he should've told you sooner, or later. Maybe he was being selfish, unfairly assuming your heart did rounds in your ears when you were around him. Maybe he-

"I can't do this." Your voice comes out creaky and broken, and Hunter feels his chest cave in. 

He feels awful, the kind that leaves you with cracked ribs and a broken jaw. He took a risk, diving into those dark depths, and ended up being pulled straight under. 

But he was so sure.

He does what does best; he comforts you. Large palms caress your shoulders as they begin to shake, the weight of his words settling in the gaps. 

"I'm so sorry," he's telling you, and it's so soft and sincere it has you heaving. "I'm sorry…I never meant to hurt you." 

That seals it, and you're sobbing even harder: all hot tears and a snotty nose. 

You're no stranger to hurt. You'd tried your hand at relationships before, throwing darts at the board until something stuck. You'd accounted for the grit and grime: the song and dance of trying to love someone else, except you had two left feet. Once the music stopped, you'd turn over, your partner long gone. 

And so you buried the dartboard along with everything else, packing it away into the dirt like cement, and walked away. 

And then he came along.

All charm and smolder, sweeping you off of your feet with ease. You both were like magnets; there was no push and pull, no tugging on a rope or trying to keep him tethered, he was always drawn to you. He understood you, believed in you. He introduced you to his brothers and sister, giving you a family of your own; something to always keep close to your heart. 

And you didn’t want to lose that.

Love just erodes things, in your eyes. 

“Just go.” It comes out defeated, pathetic. A boulder in your throat, you’re barely able to say the words, much less to him. You do what you do best: run away. 

He can’t be hearing you correctly. He lets go of you, much to his chagrin, and steps away. A strong jaw locks–petrified. He’d planted the seeds of you in his heart, and you’d ripped them out by the root. Your words clatter around in his head, but he reigns them in and takes a good look:

This isn’t you. 

“What’s going on?” He says it as gently as he can, like soothing a wounded animal, he doesn’t want to scare you away any more than he already has. 

You can’t look him in the eye. Bile edges on your teeth and your next words come out venomous: “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Yes, I do.

“Just leave me alone-”

Please don’t go.

“I just can’t-”

I will, for you.

Like a child learning to speak, your words trip and tumble over themselves. There’s too much to say, that grime still under your fingernails. How do you articulate two years of pain? You feel him stepping closer to you, and that gnawing urge to flee at the base of your skull chews into your brain. Rough palms curl around your arms, and he turns you around so that you’re facing him. He stares into watery red eyes and feels his heart split. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he’s far from that, but he just needs to know–to understand what all of this meant to you. But he needs to check in on you first; like he always has. 

“Tell me what’s wrong…please?” He’s pleading with you, and you feel sick. You know you’re pushing him away, culling peonies and roses, and leaving nothing but dirt. You meet his eyes: brown, gold, and gray. 

He bristles as if caught off guard, but he recovers just as quickly. His lips part, the question practically hanging out of his mouth.

“Are you afraid?”

You shut down after that. He tries to reel you back in, but you sever the line. He begs you for an answer, an explanation, but you can’t give him one even if you want to. Push and pull, push and pull; you tell him that you want your space, and leave him alone on that balcony. He shatters, and you step on the jagged pieces as you walk away. 

He stares up into the sky, that vast dark blue, stars reflecting in teary hues of brown and grey. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I just-”

“I am.” You interject; like the waves on Kamino, your voice rolls out uneasy and turbulent. He’s giving you a quizzical look, and you purge your head of cotton. “Afraid, I mean.”

He’s staring at you, or rather into you, silently begging you to continue. You swallow.

“I don’t…I don’t know how…” 

You grow hot, anxiety settling uncomfortably in your stomach like a bad meal. You’re meeting his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to break down into tears. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to wave a white flag, and scream “I surrender!” But you don’t. Not this time.

“I know that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest, or give you a reason why. I’m sorry that I left you alone, and I’m sorry that you had to save my ass tonight. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me because you do.” You’re sobbing at this point, and you feel him envelop you, all warmth and compassion, but you keep going, spilling your guts into his shoulder. 

“I’m scared, Hunter. Scared that if I tell you I love you too, you won’t be there when I roll over in the morning.” You break through the dirt and the grime and the weeds, telling him what sat heavy on your chest for the past two weeks. Cutting through the vines and underbrush, you find your flowers, and pick one just for him. 

“I love you, Hunter.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his orbit. You cradle his cheek, hard and defined, and it fits so perfectly in your palm. You start tracing his features with your thumb, saving every bump, dip, and hollow in your memory–locking it away in your heart. 

Clothes are strewn around the room from the heat of your passion; you told him loved him, and he decided to show you how much he loved you. There was a warmth building up inside of him, and he wanted to share it with you.

You’re naked, but in a way feels good, in the way that gives you hickies and butterflies. He’s streaked by hues of dark blue, and you can’t help but think of the night sky: bold, bright, and beautiful. He’s beautiful. You press soft lips to his forehead, and he unconsciously pulls you closer. 

Your heart swells with gratitude; after all of it, he stuck by you. Had the roles been reversed, you knew that he would’ve never left you alone on that balcony, reaching into the stars by yourself. He pried open your ribs, searching for your heart when you couldn’t do it yourself. He saw you bleeding and carved out pieces of himself to patch you up with. You close your eyes, and the only thing behind them are pictures of both of you.

He’s still there when you roll over in the morning.

[screamingintothestarss]

yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes and yes 💙

dark blue

summary: you’re hurting, and you don’t know if you can let hunter in

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: mature (17+)

warnings: mentions of drinking and alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of vomiting, angst, hurt with comfort, heavy feelings, kissing, non-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy, mature themes in general, mutual pining, swearing, reader kinda sucks with emotions

word count: 3.9k

notes: bone apple teeth! dies

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Your arm hangs over the tub's porcelain edge, beads of water streaking down the skin like rain. Bubbles and foam have long dissolved, yet you remain uncomfortably unmoving, eyes waterlogged and heavy. You don’t know how long you’ve been submerged, your skin beginning to prune and wrinkle much like your demeanor tonight. The weight of your loathing pulls down on your eyes, and you let them slip closed. 

Pulsing lights, loud music, and a mass of writhing bodies replay under your eyelids. Your stomach sours, and the feeling claws up your throat like the drink you tossed back two hours ago. A drunken holo, strong hands, and the heady scent of him remind you of why you’re even here. You sink further down into the tub, hoping that somehow the water will wash away your guilt.

You hiss as a raw ankle brushes along the bottom; you’d figured those strappy heels weren’t a good idea, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. You had a good time, you think. You had a good time, but the tears streaming down your face held their own narrative. You let out a choked sob, but before you can consider pulling it together, a gentle knock at the door has you reeling.

“Are you okay?” Hunter’s voice comes through muffled from behind the door. His tone is dripping with worry, and the knot in your stomach tightens. 

Are you okay? The question hangs over your head like a forbidden fruit, daring you to bite. You want to sink your teeth in and spill your guts–to tell him that you're not okay and that you need him, that you want-

He calls your name, and you hear his hand settling on the door's console. His concern nearly breaks your heart.

A scratchy "fine" is all you can muster. You're trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, all jagged and misshapen, but your hands are beginning to bleed. 

You can still feel him hovering behind the door, the air heavy enough to cut through. You can’t trust yourself to say anything else. 

He knows he’s hovering; he knows that you know he’s hovering. He shouldn’t be, though. He should be giving you the space you need right now, not rolling a question in between his teeth. He swallows it, choosing to leave you be, and pads back over into the living room.

A holomovie plays on the television, but he pays it no mind. 

I'm losing it, he thinks, brown-grey eyes flitting towards the bathroom door every few seconds. His hands unconsciously twirl a pen in between deft fingers, senses on the cusp of overload. Normally the thought of you filled him with something warm and saccharine, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. But now, with you being in the state that you're in, he can't help but feel prickly and uncomfortable. 

He'd been asleep when he got the call, eyes glossed over, squinting over a blue comlink. Your slurred voice and drunken divulgences had him vertiginous, chest cracking open and hands all clammy. You hadn't spoken to each other since the misunderstanding, as you had put it, from two weeks ago. You said that you wanted your space, and he respected that. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to just hold you. He's staring at the door, he realizes, unconsciously listening for any sign of you. 

He's your Jedi Knight; your protector. Without a doubt, he'd go to war for you, hands all filthy and bloodied and split if it meant yours could remain clean. 

It was also why he felt like utter shit when he pulled up to the bar to see you slumped over inside a comm booth. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Fuck," he breathes, clambering out of his speeder and making his way to you. He swears he's never moved faster in his life, the cuffs of his jeans dampening from each wet slap of his boots on the pavement. He approaches the glass doors, and his eyes focus on your watery form. The tendons in his heart snap. 

Your face is ruddy and sticky with sweat, strands of hair clinging to your forehead like a halo. A pretty dress is smattered with stains, no doubt from a drink, or drinks, that you'd likely spilled on yourself. Tears streak your face, taking what was left of your makeup with them.

You're a mess.

Without hesitation, he hooks his arm under your knees and uses the other to support your back. He shifts on his weight, and your cheek lazily slumps against his firm chest.

"I've got you," he breathes. "I've got you." 

His steps are careful, calculated. Like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he cradles you with reverence. He lays you down gently in the backseat, sliding his jacket down strong arms and draping it over your pretty figure. Calloused fingers brush away the wisps of hair stuck to your face, and you begin to stir.

Your head lolls to the side, and a choked groan rolls out of your throat. You feel like a hammer is cracking down against your skull, a poisonous rhythm that has you almost spilling the contents of tonight on rubber floor liner. 

Hunter scrambles to the middle console, plucking a bottle from the cupholder. You feel a familiar hand on your arm, calm and inviting; the opposite of how you're feeling right now. His warmth is the eye of your storm, and you're craving more. 

"Hey," he rasps, his timbre clattering around in your ears, replacing the loud thump thump thumping of your heart. It's gentle and sweet, and your bleary eyes find his amidst a dark sky and flashing lights. 

"Hunt..." is all you can say, the word clawing its way through your teeth. 

A strong hand slides in between your shoulder blades, and slowly sits you up. The bottle of something is pressed to your lips, and you part them. The liquid runs down your throat; an oasis in a desert, it brings you back to life. 

"I'm gonna take us home, okay?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Home. Even inebriated, his words had nearly knocked you flat on your ass. This wasn't your home, it was his. You were sitting in his bathtub, in his bathroom: in his home. 

He opened himself up to you in ways you didn't think possible; you held the keys to his heart, locked the door, and ran. 

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him too. He was so sure, so hopeful that the stars had aligned it for you both. He was so sure that your souls had woven themselves together, an intricate tapestry of adoration and understanding no saber could cut through. Maybe the seams weren't strong enough.

Your watery reflection stares back at you, and your lungs constrict.

You can't do this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You open the door, a cloud of hot steam following you as you pad towards the living room. Hunter had given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts to wear, and the fabric clings awkwardly to your frame.

Hunter sits on the sofa, pretending to watch the TV. 

"Didn't know you had a thing for fixer-uppers," you tease. Your heart's not in it, but you want to break through the tension somehow. You miss the way he takes a breath before facing you.

You're fully clothed, yet you feel so naked in front of him. You want to cover up, throwing a flustered “Get out!” over your shoulder whilst you find something to conceal your vulnerability with.

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to your light. You're swallowed by his shirt and his shorts, and it all begins to feel so domestic. He can't help it, letting his mind wander into uncharted territory–a thick jungle of things said and unsaid. Maybe he could've woken up to the sight of you in it, your face squished into plush pillows, serene as ever. Maybe he could've wrapped his arms around you, bunching the fabric up to your waist, tracing the sultry curve of thigh. He'd take care of you, love you the way you needed, the way you deserved.

Maybe he could've been something more to you.

You're melting under his gaze, white-hot electricity coursing through your veins. Your mouth opens.

"I'm-"

"Hey, I-"

You both speak at the same time; your lips clamp shut, and he does the same. He stares at you, silently begging you to say something. You take the hint.

"I'm sorry." The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, the grit of your guilt spilling over. Every nerve in your body is lit ablaze, and you're too wrecked to snuff them out. 

Like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, you want to run. You're looking this way and that, arms self-soothingly folded over your torso. You rock on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do with yourself.  

He sighs, thick and heavy. "Do you know what could've happened to you?" 

The implications are all there. Maker knows what could've happened had you not dialed his number. And you knew it. 

You're quiet. You don't know what else to say; what else is there to say?

Wordlessly, he pads over to you, his familiar warmth spreading across your shoulders and leading you toward the sofa. He sits you down, and it's frustratingly gentle.

"Are you hungry?" 

"No." The word darts through your teeth quicker than you expect, and it makes you wince. 

He chuckles at that. "Liar."

You let out a small laugh through your nose, breezy and cool. He'd always been able to read you; his senses were always keen when it came to you, and you swore he knew you better than you knew yourself at times. Like some sort of omniscient deity, he could see right through you, cutting through all the weeds and all the bullshit. 

But you couldn't handle that right now.

He's in the kitchen, making a sandwich, you think. You laugh to yourself, it's tight, but the thoughts of him stumbling around in the kitchen make you a little warmer. 

He'd always been a terrible cook, fumbling around everywhere and making a mess of himself. He was like a rancor in a china shop, utter destruction following in his wake. He'd given up on trying to learn, and you'd given up on trying to teach him. 

You tentatively turn towards the open kitchen, and then you're staring. Your eyes trace over his features; like a painter studying his muse, you note every detail, every stroke of the brush you'd need to make. Deep brown eyes are hyper-focused, framed by long brown locks curling down to his shoulders, a red bandana holding it all together. A strong aquiline nose crests over a chiseled face and stubbled jaw; maker, he was beautiful. 

You assumed he was a bit of a player when you first met; a lethal combo of face and body that left a string of holo-frequencies scrawled onto sticky notes and a series of romantic escapades; and maybe you were right. He'd been in and out of bedrooms before, maybe in search of the same thing you were: but you didn't even know what that was yet. 

You got to know him, peeling back all the layers and fluff and stripping him down to the core. You realized just how wrong you had him. He was always a gentleman, a gemstone in the dirt. He never played games or messed around for the hell of it; he was real. You weren't used to that.

Maybe it's why the pool of regret in your stomach swallowed you whole tonight, leaving you with a bruised ankle and a stained dress. 

You slump against plush cushions, heart heavy and mind spasming. You're tired in every sense of the word, the gears in your head creaking to a halt; you've got no juice left. 

Hunter returns from the kitchen, handing you a homemade sandwich and a bag of chips. 

"Thank you," you tell him. You don't think you've ever been more thankful for someone. He smiles at you, and it's warm–something you'd wrap in foil and save for later.

"Of course." He says it like it's obvious. Obvious that he'd be there for you when you needed him; he always was. 

He sits beside you on the sofa stealing shy glances at your side profile, and it hurts him. It hurts knowing that you would never want him in the way that he wanted you. He'd remain on the backburner then, starting the gas and keeping you warm if that's what you wanted. 

You catch him staring at you, and you stare right back. He knew you, but you'd argue you knew him better. His eyes are trying to tell you something, and that knot in your stomach returns. 

He wants to talk about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You stare into the dark blue of the sky, cool and vast like the deep end of a pool; you want to dive in and drown in it. Stars are all smattered against the surface as if someone had flicked a paint brush against it, and you try to reach up and grab one.

"Not getting lost up there are you?" a voice says to your right, and you nearly jump ten feet in the air.

"Shit-!"

"M'sorry," Hunter laughs, and it instantly dissolves your annoyance. "Was gonna ask if you were ready to go?" His eyes flash down on you, and you're beginning to get lost in hues of brown and gold.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of cobwebs and butterflies before you answer. "Yeah," you breathe. "You made reservations, right?" "

"Yeah, ten o'clock." 

Then you're staring at each other. Something in the air shifts, and you both know it. These little moments you've had with each other were happening more often; like the steady drip of water in a bucket, you'd walked away for a second, and now it's on the brink of overflow. 

The woody scent of his cologne fries your senses, and you try to keep your eyes from shamelessly ravaging his form. 

But Hunter's unabashed, unshameful without remorse. His eyes flit up and down your curves, taking in how your dress hugs you in all the right places.  You playfully slap his arm.

"Quit that!" But you don't mean it, a smile spreading across your face like butter. 

He meets your eyes again, and he doesn't hear you call his name over the thumping of his heart. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, your line cast.

"Hunter?" His name falls from your lips again, and he's just staring; your presence alone is a siren's call, and he's about to end up floating in the depths below. 

He has to do this, he thinks. He's been waiting for the perfect time, an opportunity to give himself over to you; to tell you how you've infiltrated his very core, molding it into your shape. To tell you how often he thinks of you, his head full of sugar and cotton and everything you.

 The tick tick tick of the clock is winding down, and he's falling behind. 

"Hunt-"

"I love you!”

You're frozen. The fire lit in your belly is put out cold, and now you're left shaking. 

Fuck.

The words don't sit in your stomach right, twisting and turning and gnawing at you as they settle to the bottom. They wrap themselves around your neck and squeeze. His confession shouldn't be coming as a surprise to you; the signs were always there, big bold letters and all: I love you.

You hold onto the balcony railing in an attempt to ground yourself. A hand cools the white-hot grip you have on the metal bars.

"Are you okay?" His voice is worried–terrified, even. He fucked up. The timing was all wrong; he should've told you sooner, or later. Maybe he was being selfish, unfairly assuming your heart did rounds in your ears when you were around him. Maybe he-

"I can't do this." Your voice comes out creaky and broken, and Hunter feels his chest cave in. 

He feels awful, the kind that leaves you with cracked ribs and a broken jaw. He took a risk, diving into those dark depths, and ended up being pulled straight under. 

But he was so sure.

He does what does best; he comforts you. Large palms caress your shoulders as they begin to shake, the weight of his words settling in the gaps. 

"I'm so sorry," he's telling you, and it's so soft and sincere it has you heaving. "I'm sorry…I never meant to hurt you." 

That seals it, and you're sobbing even harder: all hot tears and a snotty nose. 

You're no stranger to hurt. You'd tried your hand at relationships before, throwing darts at the board until something stuck. You'd accounted for the grit and grime: the song and dance of trying to love someone else, except you had two left feet. Once the music stopped, you'd turn over, your partner long gone. 

And so you buried the dartboard along with everything else, packing it away into the dirt like cement, and walked away. 

And then he came along.

All charm and smolder, sweeping you off of your feet with ease. You both were like magnets; there was no push and pull, no tugging on a rope or trying to keep him tethered, he was always drawn to you. He understood you, believed in you. He introduced you to his brothers and sister, giving you a family of your own; something to always keep close to your heart. 

And you didn’t want to lose that.

Love just erodes things, in your eyes. 

“Just go.” It comes out defeated, pathetic. A boulder in your throat, you’re barely able to say the words, much less to him. You do what you do best: run away. 

He can’t be hearing you correctly. He lets go of you, much to his chagrin, and steps away. A strong jaw locks–petrified. He’d planted the seeds of you in his heart, and you’d ripped them out by the root. Your words clatter around in his head, but he reigns them in and takes a good look:

This isn’t you. 

“What’s going on?” He says it as gently as he can, like soothing a wounded animal, he doesn’t want to scare you away any more than he already has. 

You can’t look him in the eye. Bile edges on your teeth and your next words come out venomous: “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Yes, I do.

“Just leave me alone-”

Please don’t go.

“I just can’t-”

I will, for you.

Like a child learning to speak, your words trip and tumble over themselves. There’s too much to say, that grime still under your fingernails. How do you articulate two years of pain? You feel him stepping closer to you, and that gnawing urge to flee at the base of your skull chews into your brain. Rough palms curl around your arms, and he turns you around so that you’re facing him. He stares into watery red eyes and feels his heart split. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he’s far from that, but he just needs to know–to understand what all of this meant to you. But he needs to check in on you first; like he always has. 

“Tell me what’s wrong…please?” He’s pleading with you, and you feel sick. You know you’re pushing him away, culling peonies and roses, and leaving nothing but dirt. You meet his eyes: brown, gold, and gray. 

He bristles as if caught off guard, but he recovers just as quickly. His lips part, the question practically hanging out of his mouth.

“Are you afraid?”

You shut down after that. He tries to reel you back in, but you sever the line. He begs you for an answer, an explanation, but you can’t give him one even if you want to. Push and pull, push and pull; you tell him that you want your space, and leave him alone on that balcony. He shatters, and you step on the jagged pieces as you walk away. 

He stares up into the sky, that vast dark blue, stars reflecting in teary hues of brown and grey. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I just-”

“I am.” You interject; like the waves on Kamino, your voice rolls out uneasy and turbulent. He’s giving you a quizzical look, and you purge your head of cotton. “Afraid, I mean.”

He’s staring at you, or rather into you, silently begging you to continue. You swallow.

“I don’t…I don’t know how…” 

You grow hot, anxiety settling uncomfortably in your stomach like a bad meal. You’re meeting his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to break down into tears. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to wave a white flag, and scream “I surrender!” But you don’t. Not this time.

“I know that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest, or give you a reason why. I’m sorry that I left you alone, and I’m sorry that you had to save my ass tonight. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me because you do.” You’re sobbing at this point, and you feel him envelop you, all warmth and compassion, but you keep going, spilling your guts into his shoulder. 

“I’m scared, Hunter. Scared that if I tell you I love you too, you won’t be there when I roll over in the morning.” You break through the dirt and the grime and the weeds, telling him what sat heavy on your chest for the past two weeks. Cutting through the vines and underbrush, you find your flowers, and pick one just for him. 

“I love you, Hunter.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his orbit. You cradle his cheek, hard and defined, and it fits so perfectly in your palm. You start tracing his features with your thumb, saving every bump, dip, and hollow in your memory–locking it away in your heart. 

Clothes are strewn around the room from the heat of your passion; you told him loved him, and he decided to show you how much he loved you. There was a warmth building up inside of him, and he wanted to share it with you.

You’re naked, but in a way feels good, in the way that gives you hickies and butterflies. He’s streaked by hues of dark blue, and you can’t help but think of the night sky: bold, bright, and beautiful. He’s beautiful. You press soft lips to his forehead, and he unconsciously pulls you closer. 

Your heart swells with gratitude; after all of it, he stuck by you. Had the roles been reversed, you knew that he would’ve never left you alone on that balcony, reaching into the stars by yourself. He pried open your ribs, searching for your heart when you couldn’t do it yourself. He saw you bleeding and carved out pieces of himself to patch you up with. You close your eyes, and the only thing behind them are pictures of both of you.

He’s still there when you roll over in the morning.

[screamingintothestarss]

thank you! i had to put a lil bit of my soul into this one 😭 💙

dark blue

summary: you’re hurting, and you don’t know if you can let hunter in

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: mature (17+)

warnings: mentions of drinking and alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of vomiting, angst, hurt with comfort, heavy feelings, kissing, non-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy, mature themes in general, mutual pining, swearing, reader kinda sucks with emotions

word count: 3.9k

notes: bone apple teeth! dies

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Your arm hangs over the tub's porcelain edge, beads of water streaking down the skin like rain. Bubbles and foam have long dissolved, yet you remain uncomfortably unmoving, eyes waterlogged and heavy. You don’t know how long you’ve been submerged, your skin beginning to prune and wrinkle much like your demeanor tonight. The weight of your loathing pulls down on your eyes, and you let them slip closed. 

Pulsing lights, loud music, and a mass of writhing bodies replay under your eyelids. Your stomach sours, and the feeling claws up your throat like the drink you tossed back two hours ago. A drunken holo, strong hands, and the heady scent of him remind you of why you’re even here. You sink further down into the tub, hoping that somehow the water will wash away your guilt.

You hiss as a raw ankle brushes along the bottom; you’d figured those strappy heels weren’t a good idea, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. You had a good time, you think. You had a good time, but the tears streaming down your face held their own narrative. You let out a choked sob, but before you can consider pulling it together, a gentle knock at the door has you reeling.

“Are you okay?” Hunter’s voice comes through muffled from behind the door. His tone is dripping with worry, and the knot in your stomach tightens. 

Are you okay? The question hangs over your head like a forbidden fruit, daring you to bite. You want to sink your teeth in and spill your guts–to tell him that you're not okay and that you need him, that you want-

He calls your name, and you hear his hand settling on the door's console. His concern nearly breaks your heart.

A scratchy "fine" is all you can muster. You're trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, all jagged and misshapen, but your hands are beginning to bleed. 

You can still feel him hovering behind the door, the air heavy enough to cut through. You can’t trust yourself to say anything else. 

He knows he’s hovering; he knows that you know he’s hovering. He shouldn’t be, though. He should be giving you the space you need right now, not rolling a question in between his teeth. He swallows it, choosing to leave you be, and pads back over into the living room.

A holomovie plays on the television, but he pays it no mind. 

I'm losing it, he thinks, brown-grey eyes flitting towards the bathroom door every few seconds. His hands unconsciously twirl a pen in between deft fingers, senses on the cusp of overload. Normally the thought of you filled him with something warm and saccharine, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. But now, with you being in the state that you're in, he can't help but feel prickly and uncomfortable. 

He'd been asleep when he got the call, eyes glossed over, squinting over a blue comlink. Your slurred voice and drunken divulgences had him vertiginous, chest cracking open and hands all clammy. You hadn't spoken to each other since the misunderstanding, as you had put it, from two weeks ago. You said that you wanted your space, and he respected that. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to just hold you. He's staring at the door, he realizes, unconsciously listening for any sign of you. 

He's your Jedi Knight; your protector. Without a doubt, he'd go to war for you, hands all filthy and bloodied and split if it meant yours could remain clean. 

It was also why he felt like utter shit when he pulled up to the bar to see you slumped over inside a comm booth. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Fuck," he breathes, clambering out of his speeder and making his way to you. He swears he's never moved faster in his life, the cuffs of his jeans dampening from each wet slap of his boots on the pavement. He approaches the glass doors, and his eyes focus on your watery form. The tendons in his heart snap. 

Your face is ruddy and sticky with sweat, strands of hair clinging to your forehead like a halo. A pretty dress is smattered with stains, no doubt from a drink, or drinks, that you'd likely spilled on yourself. Tears streak your face, taking what was left of your makeup with them.

You're a mess.

Without hesitation, he hooks his arm under your knees and uses the other to support your back. He shifts on his weight, and your cheek lazily slumps against his firm chest.

"I've got you," he breathes. "I've got you." 

His steps are careful, calculated. Like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he cradles you with reverence. He lays you down gently in the backseat, sliding his jacket down strong arms and draping it over your pretty figure. Calloused fingers brush away the wisps of hair stuck to your face, and you begin to stir.

Your head lolls to the side, and a choked groan rolls out of your throat. You feel like a hammer is cracking down against your skull, a poisonous rhythm that has you almost spilling the contents of tonight on rubber floor liner. 

Hunter scrambles to the middle console, plucking a bottle from the cupholder. You feel a familiar hand on your arm, calm and inviting; the opposite of how you're feeling right now. His warmth is the eye of your storm, and you're craving more. 

"Hey," he rasps, his timbre clattering around in your ears, replacing the loud thump thump thumping of your heart. It's gentle and sweet, and your bleary eyes find his amidst a dark sky and flashing lights. 

"Hunt..." is all you can say, the word clawing its way through your teeth. 

A strong hand slides in between your shoulder blades, and slowly sits you up. The bottle of something is pressed to your lips, and you part them. The liquid runs down your throat; an oasis in a desert, it brings you back to life. 

"I'm gonna take us home, okay?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Home. Even inebriated, his words had nearly knocked you flat on your ass. This wasn't your home, it was his. You were sitting in his bathtub, in his bathroom: in his home. 

He opened himself up to you in ways you didn't think possible; you held the keys to his heart, locked the door, and ran. 

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him too. He was so sure, so hopeful that the stars had aligned it for you both. He was so sure that your souls had woven themselves together, an intricate tapestry of adoration and understanding no saber could cut through. Maybe the seams weren't strong enough.

Your watery reflection stares back at you, and your lungs constrict.

You can't do this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You open the door, a cloud of hot steam following you as you pad towards the living room. Hunter had given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts to wear, and the fabric clings awkwardly to your frame.

Hunter sits on the sofa, pretending to watch the TV. 

"Didn't know you had a thing for fixer-uppers," you tease. Your heart's not in it, but you want to break through the tension somehow. You miss the way he takes a breath before facing you.

You're fully clothed, yet you feel so naked in front of him. You want to cover up, throwing a flustered “Get out!” over your shoulder whilst you find something to conceal your vulnerability with.

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to your light. You're swallowed by his shirt and his shorts, and it all begins to feel so domestic. He can't help it, letting his mind wander into uncharted territory–a thick jungle of things said and unsaid. Maybe he could've woken up to the sight of you in it, your face squished into plush pillows, serene as ever. Maybe he could've wrapped his arms around you, bunching the fabric up to your waist, tracing the sultry curve of thigh. He'd take care of you, love you the way you needed, the way you deserved.

Maybe he could've been something more to you.

You're melting under his gaze, white-hot electricity coursing through your veins. Your mouth opens.

"I'm-"

"Hey, I-"

You both speak at the same time; your lips clamp shut, and he does the same. He stares at you, silently begging you to say something. You take the hint.

"I'm sorry." The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, the grit of your guilt spilling over. Every nerve in your body is lit ablaze, and you're too wrecked to snuff them out. 

Like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, you want to run. You're looking this way and that, arms self-soothingly folded over your torso. You rock on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do with yourself.  

He sighs, thick and heavy. "Do you know what could've happened to you?" 

The implications are all there. Maker knows what could've happened had you not dialed his number. And you knew it. 

You're quiet. You don't know what else to say; what else is there to say?

Wordlessly, he pads over to you, his familiar warmth spreading across your shoulders and leading you toward the sofa. He sits you down, and it's frustratingly gentle.

"Are you hungry?" 

"No." The word darts through your teeth quicker than you expect, and it makes you wince. 

He chuckles at that. "Liar."

You let out a small laugh through your nose, breezy and cool. He'd always been able to read you; his senses were always keen when it came to you, and you swore he knew you better than you knew yourself at times. Like some sort of omniscient deity, he could see right through you, cutting through all the weeds and all the bullshit. 

But you couldn't handle that right now.

He's in the kitchen, making a sandwich, you think. You laugh to yourself, it's tight, but the thoughts of him stumbling around in the kitchen make you a little warmer. 

He'd always been a terrible cook, fumbling around everywhere and making a mess of himself. He was like a rancor in a china shop, utter destruction following in his wake. He'd given up on trying to learn, and you'd given up on trying to teach him. 

You tentatively turn towards the open kitchen, and then you're staring. Your eyes trace over his features; like a painter studying his muse, you note every detail, every stroke of the brush you'd need to make. Deep brown eyes are hyper-focused, framed by long brown locks curling down to his shoulders, a red bandana holding it all together. A strong aquiline nose crests over a chiseled face and stubbled jaw; maker, he was beautiful. 

You assumed he was a bit of a player when you first met; a lethal combo of face and body that left a string of holo-frequencies scrawled onto sticky notes and a series of romantic escapades; and maybe you were right. He'd been in and out of bedrooms before, maybe in search of the same thing you were: but you didn't even know what that was yet. 

You got to know him, peeling back all the layers and fluff and stripping him down to the core. You realized just how wrong you had him. He was always a gentleman, a gemstone in the dirt. He never played games or messed around for the hell of it; he was real. You weren't used to that.

Maybe it's why the pool of regret in your stomach swallowed you whole tonight, leaving you with a bruised ankle and a stained dress. 

You slump against plush cushions, heart heavy and mind spasming. You're tired in every sense of the word, the gears in your head creaking to a halt; you've got no juice left. 

Hunter returns from the kitchen, handing you a homemade sandwich and a bag of chips. 

"Thank you," you tell him. You don't think you've ever been more thankful for someone. He smiles at you, and it's warm–something you'd wrap in foil and save for later.

"Of course." He says it like it's obvious. Obvious that he'd be there for you when you needed him; he always was. 

He sits beside you on the sofa stealing shy glances at your side profile, and it hurts him. It hurts knowing that you would never want him in the way that he wanted you. He'd remain on the backburner then, starting the gas and keeping you warm if that's what you wanted. 

You catch him staring at you, and you stare right back. He knew you, but you'd argue you knew him better. His eyes are trying to tell you something, and that knot in your stomach returns. 

He wants to talk about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You stare into the dark blue of the sky, cool and vast like the deep end of a pool; you want to dive in and drown in it. Stars are all smattered against the surface as if someone had flicked a paint brush against it, and you try to reach up and grab one.

"Not getting lost up there are you?" a voice says to your right, and you nearly jump ten feet in the air.

"Shit-!"

"M'sorry," Hunter laughs, and it instantly dissolves your annoyance. "Was gonna ask if you were ready to go?" His eyes flash down on you, and you're beginning to get lost in hues of brown and gold.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of cobwebs and butterflies before you answer. "Yeah," you breathe. "You made reservations, right?" "

"Yeah, ten o'clock." 

Then you're staring at each other. Something in the air shifts, and you both know it. These little moments you've had with each other were happening more often; like the steady drip of water in a bucket, you'd walked away for a second, and now it's on the brink of overflow. 

The woody scent of his cologne fries your senses, and you try to keep your eyes from shamelessly ravaging his form. 

But Hunter's unabashed, unshameful without remorse. His eyes flit up and down your curves, taking in how your dress hugs you in all the right places.  You playfully slap his arm.

"Quit that!" But you don't mean it, a smile spreading across your face like butter. 

He meets your eyes again, and he doesn't hear you call his name over the thumping of his heart. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, your line cast.

"Hunter?" His name falls from your lips again, and he's just staring; your presence alone is a siren's call, and he's about to end up floating in the depths below. 

He has to do this, he thinks. He's been waiting for the perfect time, an opportunity to give himself over to you; to tell you how you've infiltrated his very core, molding it into your shape. To tell you how often he thinks of you, his head full of sugar and cotton and everything you.

 The tick tick tick of the clock is winding down, and he's falling behind. 

"Hunt-"

"I love you!”

You're frozen. The fire lit in your belly is put out cold, and now you're left shaking. 

Fuck.

The words don't sit in your stomach right, twisting and turning and gnawing at you as they settle to the bottom. They wrap themselves around your neck and squeeze. His confession shouldn't be coming as a surprise to you; the signs were always there, big bold letters and all: I love you.

You hold onto the balcony railing in an attempt to ground yourself. A hand cools the white-hot grip you have on the metal bars.

"Are you okay?" His voice is worried–terrified, even. He fucked up. The timing was all wrong; he should've told you sooner, or later. Maybe he was being selfish, unfairly assuming your heart did rounds in your ears when you were around him. Maybe he-

"I can't do this." Your voice comes out creaky and broken, and Hunter feels his chest cave in. 

He feels awful, the kind that leaves you with cracked ribs and a broken jaw. He took a risk, diving into those dark depths, and ended up being pulled straight under. 

But he was so sure.

He does what does best; he comforts you. Large palms caress your shoulders as they begin to shake, the weight of his words settling in the gaps. 

"I'm so sorry," he's telling you, and it's so soft and sincere it has you heaving. "I'm sorry…I never meant to hurt you." 

That seals it, and you're sobbing even harder: all hot tears and a snotty nose. 

You're no stranger to hurt. You'd tried your hand at relationships before, throwing darts at the board until something stuck. You'd accounted for the grit and grime: the song and dance of trying to love someone else, except you had two left feet. Once the music stopped, you'd turn over, your partner long gone. 

And so you buried the dartboard along with everything else, packing it away into the dirt like cement, and walked away. 

And then he came along.

All charm and smolder, sweeping you off of your feet with ease. You both were like magnets; there was no push and pull, no tugging on a rope or trying to keep him tethered, he was always drawn to you. He understood you, believed in you. He introduced you to his brothers and sister, giving you a family of your own; something to always keep close to your heart. 

And you didn’t want to lose that.

Love just erodes things, in your eyes. 

“Just go.” It comes out defeated, pathetic. A boulder in your throat, you’re barely able to say the words, much less to him. You do what you do best: run away. 

He can’t be hearing you correctly. He lets go of you, much to his chagrin, and steps away. A strong jaw locks–petrified. He’d planted the seeds of you in his heart, and you’d ripped them out by the root. Your words clatter around in his head, but he reigns them in and takes a good look:

This isn’t you. 

“What’s going on?” He says it as gently as he can, like soothing a wounded animal, he doesn’t want to scare you away any more than he already has. 

You can’t look him in the eye. Bile edges on your teeth and your next words come out venomous: “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Yes, I do.

“Just leave me alone-”

Please don’t go.

“I just can’t-”

I will, for you.

Like a child learning to speak, your words trip and tumble over themselves. There’s too much to say, that grime still under your fingernails. How do you articulate two years of pain? You feel him stepping closer to you, and that gnawing urge to flee at the base of your skull chews into your brain. Rough palms curl around your arms, and he turns you around so that you’re facing him. He stares into watery red eyes and feels his heart split. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he’s far from that, but he just needs to know–to understand what all of this meant to you. But he needs to check in on you first; like he always has. 

“Tell me what’s wrong…please?” He’s pleading with you, and you feel sick. You know you’re pushing him away, culling peonies and roses, and leaving nothing but dirt. You meet his eyes: brown, gold, and gray. 

He bristles as if caught off guard, but he recovers just as quickly. His lips part, the question practically hanging out of his mouth.

“Are you afraid?”

You shut down after that. He tries to reel you back in, but you sever the line. He begs you for an answer, an explanation, but you can’t give him one even if you want to. Push and pull, push and pull; you tell him that you want your space, and leave him alone on that balcony. He shatters, and you step on the jagged pieces as you walk away. 

He stares up into the sky, that vast dark blue, stars reflecting in teary hues of brown and grey. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I just-”

“I am.” You interject; like the waves on Kamino, your voice rolls out uneasy and turbulent. He’s giving you a quizzical look, and you purge your head of cotton. “Afraid, I mean.”

He’s staring at you, or rather into you, silently begging you to continue. You swallow.

“I don’t…I don’t know how…” 

You grow hot, anxiety settling uncomfortably in your stomach like a bad meal. You’re meeting his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to break down into tears. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to wave a white flag, and scream “I surrender!” But you don’t. Not this time.

“I know that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest, or give you a reason why. I’m sorry that I left you alone, and I’m sorry that you had to save my ass tonight. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me because you do.” You’re sobbing at this point, and you feel him envelop you, all warmth and compassion, but you keep going, spilling your guts into his shoulder. 

“I’m scared, Hunter. Scared that if I tell you I love you too, you won’t be there when I roll over in the morning.” You break through the dirt and the grime and the weeds, telling him what sat heavy on your chest for the past two weeks. Cutting through the vines and underbrush, you find your flowers, and pick one just for him. 

“I love you, Hunter.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his orbit. You cradle his cheek, hard and defined, and it fits so perfectly in your palm. You start tracing his features with your thumb, saving every bump, dip, and hollow in your memory–locking it away in your heart. 

Clothes are strewn around the room from the heat of your passion; you told him loved him, and decided to show you how much he loved you. There was a warmth building up inside of him, and he wanted to share it with you.

You’re naked, but in a way feels good, in the way that gives you hickies and butterflies. He’s streaked by hues of dark blue, and you can’t help but think of the night sky: bold, bright, and beautiful. He’s beautiful. You press soft lips to his forehead, and he unconsciously pulls you closer. 

Your heart swells with gratitude; after all of it, he stuck by you. Had the roles been reversed, you knew that he would’ve never left you alone on that balcony, reaching into the stars by yourself. He pried open your ribs, searching for your heart when you couldn’t do it yourself. He saw you bleeding and carved out pieces of himself to patch you up with. You close your eyes, and the only thing behind them are pictures of both of you.

He’s still there when you roll over in the morning.

[screamingintothestarss]

EEEEEEEEEEEE!!! thank youuuu! 💙 so glad you're enjoying my work, lovely to see you again!

dark blue

summary: you’re hurting, and you don’t know if you can let hunter in

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: mature (17+)

warnings: mentions of drinking and alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of vomiting, angst, hurt with comfort, heavy feelings, kissing, non-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy, mature themes in general, mutual pining, swearing, reader kinda sucks with emotions

word count: 3.9k

notes: bone apple teeth! dies

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Your arm hangs over the tub's porcelain edge, beads of water streaking down the skin like rain. Bubbles and foam have long dissolved, yet you remain uncomfortably unmoving, eyes waterlogged and heavy. You don’t know how long you’ve been submerged, your skin beginning to prune and wrinkle much like your demeanor tonight. The weight of your loathing pulls down on your eyes, and you let them slip closed. 

Pulsing lights, loud music, and a mass of writhing bodies replay under your eyelids. Your stomach sours, and the feeling claws up your throat like the drink you tossed back two hours ago. A drunken holo, strong hands, and the heady scent of him remind you of why you’re even here. You sink further down into the tub, hoping that somehow the water will wash away your guilt.

You hiss as a raw ankle brushes along the bottom; you’d figured those strappy heels weren’t a good idea, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. You had a good time, you think. You had a good time, but the tears streaming down your face held their own narrative. You let out a choked sob, but before you can consider pulling it together, a gentle knock at the door has you reeling.

“Are you okay?” Hunter’s voice comes through muffled from behind the door. His tone is dripping with worry, and the knot in your stomach tightens. 

Are you okay? The question hangs over your head like a forbidden fruit, daring you to bite. You want to sink your teeth in and spill your guts–to tell him that you're not okay and that you need him, that you want-

He calls your name, and you hear his hand settling on the door's console. His concern nearly breaks your heart.

A scratchy "fine" is all you can muster. You're trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, all jagged and misshapen, but your hands are beginning to bleed. 

You can still feel him hovering behind the door, the air heavy enough to cut through. You can’t trust yourself to say anything else. 

He knows he’s hovering; he knows that you know he’s hovering. He shouldn’t be, though. He should be giving you the space you need right now, not rolling a question in between his teeth. He swallows it, choosing to leave you be, and pads back over into the living room.

A holomovie plays on the television, but he pays it no mind. 

I'm losing it, he thinks, brown-grey eyes flitting towards the bathroom door every few seconds. His hands unconsciously twirl a pen in between deft fingers, senses on the cusp of overload. Normally the thought of you filled him with something warm and saccharine, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. But now, with you being in the state that you're in, he can't help but feel prickly and uncomfortable. 

He'd been asleep when he got the call, eyes glossed over, squinting over a blue comlink. Your slurred voice and drunken divulgences had him vertiginous, chest cracking open and hands all clammy. You hadn't spoken to each other since the misunderstanding, as you had put it, from two weeks ago. You said that you wanted your space, and he respected that. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to just hold you. He's staring at the door, he realizes, unconsciously listening for any sign of you. 

He's your Jedi Knight; your protector. Without a doubt, he'd go to war for you, hands all filthy and bloodied and split if it meant yours could remain clean. 

It was also why he felt like utter shit when he pulled up to the bar to see you slumped over inside a comm booth. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Fuck," he breathes, clambering out of his speeder and making his way to you. He swears he's never moved faster in his life, the cuffs of his jeans dampening from each wet slap of his boots on the pavement. He approaches the glass doors, and his eyes focus on your watery form. The tendons in his heart snap. 

Your face is ruddy and sticky with sweat, strands of hair clinging to your forehead like a halo. A pretty dress is smattered with stains, no doubt from a drink, or drinks, that you'd likely spilled on yourself. Tears streak your face, taking what was left of your makeup with them.

You're a mess.

Without hesitation, he hooks his arm under your knees and uses the other to support your back. He shifts on his weight, and your cheek lazily slumps against his firm chest.

"I've got you," he breathes. "I've got you." 

His steps are careful, calculated. Like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he cradles you with reverence. He lays you down gently in the backseat, sliding his jacket down strong arms and draping it over your pretty figure. Calloused fingers brush away the wisps of hair stuck to your face, and you begin to stir.

Your head lolls to the side, and a choked groan rolls out of your throat. You feel like a hammer is cracking down against your skull, a poisonous rhythm that has you almost spilling the contents of tonight on rubber floor liner. 

Hunter scrambles to the middle console, plucking a bottle from the cupholder. You feel a familiar hand on your arm, calm and inviting; the opposite of how you're feeling right now. His warmth is the eye of your storm, and you're craving more. 

"Hey," he rasps, his timbre clattering around in your ears, replacing the loud thump thump thumping of your heart. It's gentle and sweet, and your bleary eyes find his amidst a dark sky and flashing lights. 

"Hunt..." is all you can say, the word clawing its way through your teeth. 

A strong hand slides in between your shoulder blades, and slowly sits you up. The bottle of something is pressed to your lips, and you part them. The liquid runs down your throat; an oasis in a desert, it brings you back to life. 

"I'm gonna take us home, okay?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Home. Even inebriated, his words had nearly knocked you flat on your ass. This wasn't your home, it was his. You were sitting in his bathtub, in his bathroom: in his home. 

He opened himself up to you in ways you didn't think possible; you held the keys to his heart, locked the door, and ran. 

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him too. He was so sure, so hopeful that the stars had aligned it for you both. He was so sure that your souls had woven themselves together, an intricate tapestry of adoration and understanding no saber could cut through. Maybe the seams weren't strong enough.

Your watery reflection stares back at you, and your lungs constrict.

You can't do this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You open the door, a cloud of hot steam following you as you pad towards the living room. Hunter had given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts to wear, and the fabric clings awkwardly to your frame.

Hunter sits on the sofa, pretending to watch the TV. 

"Didn't know you had a thing for fixer-uppers," you tease. Your heart's not in it, but you want to break through the tension somehow. You miss the way he takes a breath before facing you.

You're fully clothed, yet you feel so naked in front of him. You want to cover up, throwing a flustered “Get out!” over your shoulder whilst you find something to conceal your vulnerability with.

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to your light. You're swallowed by his shirt and his shorts, and it all begins to feel so domestic. He can't help it, letting his mind wander into uncharted territory–a thick jungle of things said and unsaid. Maybe he could've woken up to the sight of you in it, your face squished into plush pillows, serene as ever. Maybe he could've wrapped his arms around you, bunching the fabric up to your waist, tracing the sultry curve of thigh. He'd take care of you, love you the way you needed, the way you deserved.

Maybe he could've been something more to you.

You're melting under his gaze, white-hot electricity coursing through your veins. Your mouth opens.

"I'm-"

"Hey, I-"

You both speak at the same time; your lips clamp shut, and he does the same. He stares at you, silently begging you to say something. You take the hint.

"I'm sorry." The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, the grit of your guilt spilling over. Every nerve in your body is lit ablaze, and you're too wrecked to snuff them out. 

Like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, you want to run. You're looking this way and that, arms self-soothingly folded over your torso. You rock on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do with yourself.  

He sighs, thick and heavy. "Do you know what could've happened to you?" 

The implications are all there. Maker knows what could've happened had you not dialed his number. And you knew it. 

You're quiet. You don't know what else to say; what else is there to say?

Wordlessly, he pads over to you, his familiar warmth spreading across your shoulders and leading you toward the sofa. He sits you down, and it's frustratingly gentle.

"Are you hungry?" 

"No." The word darts through your teeth quicker than you expect, and it makes you wince. 

He chuckles at that. "Liar."

You let out a small laugh through your nose, breezy and cool. He'd always been able to read you; his senses were always keen when it came to you, and you swore he knew you better than you knew yourself at times. Like some sort of omniscient deity, he could see right through you, cutting through all the weeds and all the bullshit. 

But you couldn't handle that right now.

He's in the kitchen, making a sandwich, you think. You laugh to yourself, it's tight, but the thoughts of him stumbling around in the kitchen make you a little warmer. 

He'd always been a terrible cook, fumbling around everywhere and making a mess of himself. He was like a rancor in a china shop, utter destruction following in his wake. He'd given up on trying to learn, and you'd given up on trying to teach him. 

You tentatively turn towards the open kitchen, and then you're staring. Your eyes trace over his features; like a painter studying his muse, you note every detail, every stroke of the brush you'd need to make. Deep brown eyes are hyper-focused, framed by long brown locks curling down to his shoulders, a red bandana holding it all together. A strong aquiline nose crests over a chiseled face and stubbled jaw; maker, he was beautiful. 

You assumed he was a bit of a player when you first met; a lethal combo of face and body that left a string of holo-frequencies scrawled onto sticky notes and a series of romantic escapades; and maybe you were right. He'd been in and out of bedrooms before, maybe in search of the same thing you were: but you didn't even know what that was yet. 

You got to know him, peeling back all the layers and fluff and stripping him down to the core. You realized just how wrong you had him. He was always a gentleman, a gemstone in the dirt. He never played games or messed around for the hell of it; he was real. You weren't used to that.

Maybe it's why the pool of regret in your stomach swallowed you whole tonight, leaving you with a bruised ankle and a stained dress. 

You slump against plush cushions, heart heavy and mind spasming. You're tired in every sense of the word, the gears in your head creaking to a halt; you've got no juice left. 

Hunter returns from the kitchen, handing you a homemade sandwich and a bag of chips. 

"Thank you," you tell him. You don't think you've ever been more thankful for someone. He smiles at you, and it's warm–something you'd wrap in foil and save for later.

"Of course." He says it like it's obvious. Obvious that he'd be there for you when you needed him; he always was. 

He sits beside you on the sofa stealing shy glances at your side profile, and it hurts him. It hurts knowing that you would never want him in the way that he wanted you. He'd remain on the backburner then, starting the gas and keeping you warm if that's what you wanted. 

You catch him staring at you, and you stare right back. He knew you, but you'd argue you knew him better. His eyes are trying to tell you something, and that knot in your stomach returns. 

He wants to talk about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You stare into the dark blue of the sky, cool and vast like the deep end of a pool; you want to dive in and drown in it. Stars are all smattered against the surface as if someone had flicked a paint brush against it, and you try to reach up and grab one.

"Not getting lost up there are you?" a voice says to your right, and you nearly jump ten feet in the air.

"Shit-!"

"M'sorry," Hunter laughs, and it instantly dissolves your annoyance. "Was gonna ask if you were ready to go?" His eyes flash down on you, and you're beginning to get lost in hues of brown and gold.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of cobwebs and butterflies before you answer. "Yeah," you breathe. "You made reservations, right?" "

"Yeah, ten o'clock." 

Then you're staring at each other. Something in the air shifts, and you both know it. These little moments you've had with each other were happening more often; like the steady drip of water in a bucket, you'd walked away for a second, and now it's on the brink of overflow. 

The woody scent of his cologne fries your senses, and you try to keep your eyes from shamelessly ravaging his form. 

But Hunter's unabashed, unshameful without remorse. His eyes flit up and down your curves, taking in how your dress hugs you in all the right places.  You playfully slap his arm.

"Quit that!" But you don't mean it, a smile spreading across your face like butter. 

He meets your eyes again, and he doesn't hear you call his name over the thumping of his heart. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, your line cast.

"Hunter?" His name falls from your lips again, and he's just staring; your presence alone is a siren's call, and he's about to end up floating in the depths below. 

He has to do this, he thinks. He's been waiting for the perfect time, an opportunity to give himself over to you; to tell you how you've infiltrated his very core, molding it into your shape. To tell you how often he thinks of you, his head full of sugar and cotton and everything you.

 The tick tick tick of the clock is winding down, and he's falling behind. 

"Hunt-"

"I love you!”

You're frozen. The fire lit in your belly is put out cold, and now you're left shaking. 

Fuck.

The words don't sit in your stomach right, twisting and turning and gnawing at you as they settle to the bottom. They wrap themselves around your neck and squeeze. His confession shouldn't be coming as a surprise to you; the signs were always there, big bold letters and all: I love you.

You hold onto the balcony railing in an attempt to ground yourself. A hand cools the white-hot grip you have on the metal bars.

"Are you okay?" His voice is worried–terrified, even. He fucked up. The timing was all wrong; he should've told you sooner, or later. Maybe he was being selfish, unfairly assuming your heart did rounds in your ears when you were around him. Maybe he-

"I can't do this." Your voice comes out creaky and broken, and Hunter feels his chest cave in. 

He feels awful, the kind that leaves you with cracked ribs and a broken jaw. He took a risk, diving into those dark depths, and ended up being pulled straight under. 

But he was so sure.

He does what does best; he comforts you. Large palms caress your shoulders as they begin to shake, the weight of his words settling in the gaps. 

"I'm so sorry," he's telling you, and it's so soft and sincere it has you heaving. "I'm sorry…I never meant to hurt you." 

That seals it, and you're sobbing even harder: all hot tears and a snotty nose. 

You're no stranger to hurt. You'd tried your hand at relationships before, throwing darts at the board until something stuck. You'd accounted for the grit and grime: the song and dance of trying to love someone else, except you had two left feet. Once the music stopped, you'd turn over, your partner long gone. 

And so you buried the dartboard along with everything else, packing it away into the dirt like cement, and walked away. 

And then he came along.

All charm and smolder, sweeping you off of your feet with ease. You both were like magnets; there was no push and pull, no tugging on a rope or trying to keep him tethered, he was always drawn to you. He understood you, believed in you. He introduced you to his brothers and sister, giving you a family of your own; something to always keep close to your heart. 

And you didn’t want to lose that.

Love just erodes things, in your eyes. 

“Just go.” It comes out defeated, pathetic. A boulder in your throat, you’re barely able to say the words, much less to him. You do what you do best: run away. 

He can’t be hearing you correctly. He lets go of you, much to his chagrin, and steps away. A strong jaw locks–petrified. He’d planted the seeds of you in his heart, and you’d ripped them out by the root. Your words clatter around in his head, but he reigns them in and takes a good look:

This isn’t you. 

“What’s going on?” He says it as gently as he can, like soothing a wounded animal, he doesn’t want to scare you away any more than he already has. 

You can’t look him in the eye. Bile edges on your teeth and your next words come out venomous: “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Yes, I do.

“Just leave me alone-”

Please don’t go.

“I just can’t-”

I will, for you.

Like a child learning to speak, your words trip and tumble over themselves. There’s too much to say, that grime still under your fingernails. How do you articulate two years of pain? You feel him stepping closer to you, and that gnawing urge to flee at the base of your skull chews into your brain. Rough palms curl around your arms, and he turns you around so that you’re facing him. He stares into watery red eyes and feels his heart split. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he’s far from that, but he just needs to know–to understand what all of this meant to you. But he needs to check in on you first; like he always has. 

“Tell me what’s wrong…please?” He’s pleading with you, and you feel sick. You know you’re pushing him away, culling peonies and roses, and leaving nothing but dirt. You meet his eyes: brown, gold, and gray. 

He bristles as if caught off guard, but he recovers just as quickly. His lips part, the question practically hanging out of his mouth.

“Are you afraid?”

You shut down after that. He tries to reel you back in, but you sever the line. He begs you for an answer, an explanation, but you can’t give him one even if you want to. Push and pull, push and pull; you tell him that you want your space, and leave him alone on that balcony. He shatters, and you step on the jagged pieces as you walk away. 

He stares up into the sky, that vast dark blue, stars reflecting in teary hues of brown and grey. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I just-”

“I am.” You interject; like the waves on Kamino, your voice rolls out uneasy and turbulent. He’s giving you a quizzical look, and you purge your head of cotton. “Afraid, I mean.”

He’s staring at you, or rather into you, silently begging you to continue. You swallow.

“I don’t…I don’t know how…” 

You grow hot, anxiety settling uncomfortably in your stomach like a bad meal. You’re meeting his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to break down into tears. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to wave a white flag, and scream “I surrender!” But you don’t. Not this time.

“I know that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest, or give you a reason why. I’m sorry that I left you alone, and I’m sorry that you had to save my ass tonight. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me because you do.” You’re sobbing at this point, and you feel him envelop you, all warmth and compassion, but you keep going, spilling your guts into his shoulder. 

“I’m scared, Hunter. Scared that if I tell you I love you too, you won’t be there when I roll over in the morning.” You break through the dirt and the grime and the weeds, telling him what sat heavy on your chest for the past two weeks. Cutting through the vines and underbrush, you find your flowers, and pick one just for him. 

“I love you, Hunter.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his orbit. You cradle his cheek, hard and defined, and it fits so perfectly in your palm. You start tracing his features with your thumb, saving every bump, dip, and hollow in your memory–locking it away in your heart. 

Clothes are strewn around the room from the heat of your passion; you told him loved him, and he decided to show you how much he loved you. There was a warmth building up inside of him, and he wanted to share it with you.

You’re naked, but in a way feels good, in the way that gives you hickies and butterflies. He’s streaked by hues of dark blue, and you can’t help but think of the night sky: bold, bright, and beautiful. He’s beautiful. You press soft lips to his forehead, and he unconsciously pulls you closer. 

Your heart swells with gratitude; after all of it, he stuck by you. Had the roles been reversed, you knew that he would’ve never left you alone on that balcony, reaching into the stars by yourself. He pried open your ribs, searching for your heart when you couldn’t do it yourself. He saw you bleeding and carved out pieces of himself to patch you up with. You close your eyes, and the only thing behind them are pictures of both of you.

He’s still there when you roll over in the morning.

[screamingintothestarss]

soft hunter is best hunter 😌. glad you enjoyed!

dark blue

summary: you’re hurting, and you don’t know if you can let hunter in

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: mature (17+)

warnings: mentions of drinking and alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of vomiting, angst, hurt with comfort, heavy feelings, kissing, non-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy, mature themes in general, mutual pining, swearing, reader kinda sucks with emotions

word count: 3.9k

notes: bone apple teeth! dies

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Your arm hangs over the tub's porcelain edge, beads of water streaking down the skin like rain. Bubbles and foam have long dissolved, yet you remain uncomfortably unmoving, eyes waterlogged and heavy. You don’t know how long you’ve been submerged, your skin beginning to prune and wrinkle much like your demeanor tonight. The weight of your loathing pulls down on your eyes, and you let them slip closed. 

Pulsing lights, loud music, and a mass of writhing bodies replay under your eyelids. Your stomach sours, and the feeling claws up your throat like the drink you tossed back two hours ago. A drunken holo, strong hands, and the heady scent of him remind you of why you’re even here. You sink further down into the tub, hoping that somehow the water will wash away your guilt.

You hiss as a raw ankle brushes along the bottom; you’d figured those strappy heels weren’t a good idea, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. You had a good time, you think. You had a good time, but the tears streaming down your face held their own narrative. You let out a choked sob, but before you can consider pulling it together, a gentle knock at the door has you reeling.

“Are you okay?” Hunter’s voice comes through muffled from behind the door. His tone is dripping with worry, and the knot in your stomach tightens. 

Are you okay? The question hangs over your head like a forbidden fruit, daring you to bite. You want to sink your teeth in and spill your guts–to tell him that you're not okay and that you need him, that you want-

He calls your name, and you hear his hand settling on the door's console. His concern nearly breaks your heart.

A scratchy "fine" is all you can muster. You're trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, all jagged and misshapen, but your hands are beginning to bleed. 

You can still feel him hovering behind the door, the air heavy enough to cut through. You can’t trust yourself to say anything else. 

He knows he’s hovering; he knows that you know he’s hovering. He shouldn’t be, though. He should be giving you the space you need right now, not rolling a question in between his teeth. He swallows it, choosing to leave you be, and pads back over into the living room.

A holomovie plays on the television, but he pays it no mind. 

I'm losing it, he thinks, brown-grey eyes flitting towards the bathroom door every few seconds. His hands unconsciously twirl a pen in between deft fingers, senses on the cusp of overload. Normally the thought of you filled him with something warm and saccharine, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. But now, with you being in the state that you're in, he can't help but feel prickly and uncomfortable. 

He'd been asleep when he got the call, eyes glossed over, squinting over a blue comlink. Your slurred voice and drunken divulgences had him vertiginous, chest cracking open and hands all clammy. You hadn't spoken to each other since the misunderstanding, as you had put it, from two weeks ago. You said that you wanted your space, and he respected that. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to just hold you. He's staring at the door, he realizes, unconsciously listening for any sign of you. 

He's your Jedi Knight; your protector. Without a doubt, he'd go to war for you, hands all filthy and bloodied and split if it meant yours could remain clean. 

It was also why he felt like utter shit when he pulled up to the bar to see you slumped over inside a comm booth. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Fuck," he breathes, clambering out of his speeder and making his way to you. He swears he's never moved faster in his life, the cuffs of his jeans dampening from each wet slap of his boots on the pavement. He approaches the glass doors, and his eyes focus on your watery form. The tendons in his heart snap. 

Your face is ruddy and sticky with sweat, strands of hair clinging to your forehead like a halo. A pretty dress is smattered with stains, no doubt from a drink, or drinks, that you'd likely spilled on yourself. Tears streak your face, taking what was left of your makeup with them.

You're a mess.

Without hesitation, he hooks his arm under your knees and uses the other to support your back. He shifts on his weight, and your cheek lazily slumps against his firm chest.

"I've got you," he breathes. "I've got you." 

His steps are careful, calculated. Like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he cradles you with reverence. He lays you down gently in the backseat, sliding his jacket down strong arms and draping it over your pretty figure. Calloused fingers brush away the wisps of hair stuck to your face, and you begin to stir.

Your head lolls to the side, and a choked groan rolls out of your throat. You feel like a hammer is cracking down against your skull, a poisonous rhythm that has you almost spilling the contents of tonight on rubber floor liner. 

Hunter scrambles to the middle console, plucking a bottle from the cupholder. You feel a familiar hand on your arm, calm and inviting; the opposite of how you're feeling right now. His warmth is the eye of your storm, and you're craving more. 

"Hey," he rasps, his timbre clattering around in your ears, replacing the loud thump thump thumping of your heart. It's gentle and sweet, and your bleary eyes find his amidst a dark sky and flashing lights. 

"Hunt..." is all you can say, the word clawing its way through your teeth. 

A strong hand slides in between your shoulder blades, and slowly sits you up. The bottle of something is pressed to your lips, and you part them. The liquid runs down your throat; an oasis in a desert, it brings you back to life. 

"I'm gonna take us home, okay?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Home. Even inebriated, his words had nearly knocked you flat on your ass. This wasn't your home, it was his. You were sitting in his bathtub, in his bathroom: in his home. 

He opened himself up to you in ways you didn't think possible; you held the keys to his heart, locked the door, and ran. 

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him too. He was so sure, so hopeful that the stars had aligned it for you both. He was so sure that your souls had woven themselves together, an intricate tapestry of adoration and understanding no saber could cut through. Maybe the seams weren't strong enough.

Your watery reflection stares back at you, and your lungs constrict.

You can't do this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You open the door, a cloud of hot steam following you as you pad towards the living room. Hunter had given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts to wear, and the fabric clings awkwardly to your frame.

Hunter sits on the sofa, pretending to watch the TV. 

"Didn't know you had a thing for fixer-uppers," you tease. Your heart's not in it, but you want to break through the tension somehow. You miss the way he takes a breath before facing you.

You're fully clothed, yet you feel so naked in front of him. You want to cover up, throwing a flustered “Get out!” over your shoulder whilst you find something to conceal your vulnerability with.

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to your light. You're swallowed by his shirt and his shorts, and it all begins to feel so domestic. He can't help it, letting his mind wander into uncharted territory–a thick jungle of things said and unsaid. Maybe he could've woken up to the sight of you in it, your face squished into plush pillows, serene as ever. Maybe he could've wrapped his arms around you, bunching the fabric up to your waist, tracing the sultry curve of thigh. He'd take care of you, love you the way you needed, the way you deserved.

Maybe he could've been something more to you.

You're melting under his gaze, white-hot electricity coursing through your veins. Your mouth opens.

"I'm-"

"Hey, I-"

You both speak at the same time; your lips clamp shut, and he does the same. He stares at you, silently begging you to say something. You take the hint.

"I'm sorry." The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, the grit of your guilt spilling over. Every nerve in your body is lit ablaze, and you're too wrecked to snuff them out. 

Like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, you want to run. You're looking this way and that, arms self-soothingly folded over your torso. You rock on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do with yourself.  

He sighs, thick and heavy. "Do you know what could've happened to you?" 

The implications are all there. Maker knows what could've happened had you not dialed his number. And you knew it. 

You're quiet. You don't know what else to say; what else is there to say?

Wordlessly, he pads over to you, his familiar warmth spreading across your shoulders and leading you toward the sofa. He sits you down, and it's frustratingly gentle.

"Are you hungry?" 

"No." The word darts through your teeth quicker than you expect, and it makes you wince. 

He chuckles at that. "Liar."

You let out a small laugh through your nose, breezy and cool. He'd always been able to read you; his senses were always keen when it came to you, and you swore he knew you better than you knew yourself at times. Like some sort of omniscient deity, he could see right through you, cutting through all the weeds and all the bullshit. 

But you couldn't handle that right now.

He's in the kitchen, making a sandwich, you think. You laugh to yourself, it's tight, but the thoughts of him stumbling around in the kitchen make you a little warmer. 

He'd always been a terrible cook, fumbling around everywhere and making a mess of himself. He was like a rancor in a china shop, utter destruction following in his wake. He'd given up on trying to learn, and you'd given up on trying to teach him. 

You tentatively turn towards the open kitchen, and then you're staring. Your eyes trace over his features; like a painter studying his muse, you note every detail, every stroke of the brush you'd need to make. Deep brown eyes are hyper-focused, framed by long brown locks curling down to his shoulders, a red bandana holding it all together. A strong aquiline nose crests over a chiseled face and stubbled jaw; maker, he was beautiful. 

You assumed he was a bit of a player when you first met; a lethal combo of face and body that left a string of holo-frequencies scrawled onto sticky notes and a series of romantic escapades; and maybe you were right. He'd been in and out of bedrooms before, maybe in search of the same thing you were: but you didn't even know what that was yet. 

You got to know him, peeling back all the layers and fluff and stripping him down to the core. You realized just how wrong you had him. He was always a gentleman, a gemstone in the dirt. He never played games or messed around for the hell of it; he was real. You weren't used to that.

Maybe it's why the pool of regret in your stomach swallowed you whole tonight, leaving you with a bruised ankle and a stained dress. 

You slump against plush cushions, heart heavy and mind spasming. You're tired in every sense of the word, the gears in your head creaking to a halt; you've got no juice left. 

Hunter returns from the kitchen, handing you a homemade sandwich and a bag of chips. 

"Thank you," you tell him. You don't think you've ever been more thankful for someone. He smiles at you, and it's warm–something you'd wrap in foil and save for later.

"Of course." He says it like it's obvious. Obvious that he'd be there for you when you needed him; he always was. 

He sits beside you on the sofa stealing shy glances at your side profile, and it hurts him. It hurts knowing that you would never want him in the way that he wanted you. He'd remain on the backburner then, starting the gas and keeping you warm if that's what you wanted. 

You catch him staring at you, and you stare right back. He knew you, but you'd argue you knew him better. His eyes are trying to tell you something, and that knot in your stomach returns. 

He wants to talk about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You stare into the dark blue of the sky, cool and vast like the deep end of a pool; you want to dive in and drown in it. Stars are all smattered against the surface as if someone had flicked a paint brush against it, and you try to reach up and grab one.

"Not getting lost up there are you?" a voice says to your right, and you nearly jump ten feet in the air.

"Shit-!"

"M'sorry," Hunter laughs, and it instantly dissolves your annoyance. "Was gonna ask if you were ready to go?" His eyes flash down on you, and you're beginning to get lost in hues of brown and gold.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of cobwebs and butterflies before you answer. "Yeah," you breathe. "You made reservations, right?" "

"Yeah, ten o'clock." 

Then you're staring at each other. Something in the air shifts, and you both know it. These little moments you've had with each other were happening more often; like the steady drip of water in a bucket, you'd walked away for a second, and now it's on the brink of overflow. 

The woody scent of his cologne fries your senses, and you try to keep your eyes from shamelessly ravaging his form. 

But Hunter's unabashed, unshameful without remorse. His eyes flit up and down your curves, taking in how your dress hugs you in all the right places.  You playfully slap his arm.

"Quit that!" But you don't mean it, a smile spreading across your face like butter. 

He meets your eyes again, and he doesn't hear you call his name over the thumping of his heart. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, your line cast.

"Hunter?" His name falls from your lips again, and he's just staring; your presence alone is a siren's call, and he's about to end up floating in the depths below. 

He has to do this, he thinks. He's been waiting for the perfect time, an opportunity to give himself over to you; to tell you how you've infiltrated his very core, molding it into your shape. To tell you how often he thinks of you, his head full of sugar and cotton and everything you.

 The tick tick tick of the clock is winding down, and he's falling behind. 

"Hunt-"

"I love you!”

You're frozen. The fire lit in your belly is put out cold, and now you're left shaking. 

Fuck.

The words don't sit in your stomach right, twisting and turning and gnawing at you as they settle to the bottom. They wrap themselves around your neck and squeeze. His confession shouldn't be coming as a surprise to you; the signs were always there, big bold letters and all: I love you.

You hold onto the balcony railing in an attempt to ground yourself. A hand cools the white-hot grip you have on the metal bars.

"Are you okay?" His voice is worried–terrified, even. He fucked up. The timing was all wrong; he should've told you sooner, or later. Maybe he was being selfish, unfairly assuming your heart did rounds in your ears when you were around him. Maybe he-

"I can't do this." Your voice comes out creaky and broken, and Hunter feels his chest cave in. 

He feels awful, the kind that leaves you with cracked ribs and a broken jaw. He took a risk, diving into those dark depths, and ended up being pulled straight under. 

But he was so sure.

He does what does best; he comforts you. Large palms caress your shoulders as they begin to shake, the weight of his words settling in the gaps. 

"I'm so sorry," he's telling you, and it's so soft and sincere it has you heaving. "I'm sorry…I never meant to hurt you." 

That seals it, and you're sobbing even harder: all hot tears and a snotty nose. 

You're no stranger to hurt. You'd tried your hand at relationships before, throwing darts at the board until something stuck. You'd accounted for the grit and grime: the song and dance of trying to love someone else, except you had two left feet. Once the music stopped, you'd turn over, your partner long gone. 

And so you buried the dartboard along with everything else, packing it away into the dirt like cement, and walked away. 

And then he came along.

All charm and smolder, sweeping you off of your feet with ease. You both were like magnets; there was no push and pull, no tugging on a rope or trying to keep him tethered, he was always drawn to you. He understood you, believed in you. He introduced you to his brothers and sister, giving you a family of your own; something to always keep close to your heart. 

And you didn’t want to lose that.

Love just erodes things, in your eyes. 

“Just go.” It comes out defeated, pathetic. A boulder in your throat, you’re barely able to say the words, much less to him. You do what you do best: run away. 

He can’t be hearing you correctly. He lets go of you, much to his chagrin, and steps away. A strong jaw locks–petrified. He’d planted the seeds of you in his heart, and you’d ripped them out by the root. Your words clatter around in his head, but he reigns them in and takes a good look:

This isn’t you. 

“What’s going on?” He says it as gently as he can, like soothing a wounded animal, he doesn’t want to scare you away any more than he already has. 

You can’t look him in the eye. Bile edges on your teeth and your next words come out venomous: “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Yes, I do.

“Just leave me alone-”

Please don’t go.

“I just can’t-”

I will, for you.

Like a child learning to speak, your words trip and tumble over themselves. There’s too much to say, that grime still under your fingernails. How do you articulate two years of pain? You feel him stepping closer to you, and that gnawing urge to flee at the base of your skull chews into your brain. Rough palms curl around your arms, and he turns you around so that you’re facing him. He stares into watery red eyes and feels his heart split. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he’s far from that, but he just needs to know–to understand what all of this meant to you. But he needs to check in on you first; like he always has. 

“Tell me what’s wrong…please?” He’s pleading with you, and you feel sick. You know you’re pushing him away, culling peonies and roses, and leaving nothing but dirt. You meet his eyes: brown, gold, and gray. 

He bristles as if caught off guard, but he recovers just as quickly. His lips part, the question practically hanging out of his mouth.

“Are you afraid?”

You shut down after that. He tries to reel you back in, but you sever the line. He begs you for an answer, an explanation, but you can’t give him one even if you want to. Push and pull, push and pull; you tell him that you want your space, and leave him alone on that balcony. He shatters, and you step on the jagged pieces as you walk away. 

He stares up into the sky, that vast dark blue, stars reflecting in teary hues of brown and grey. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I just-”

“I am.” You interject; like the waves on Kamino, your voice rolls out uneasy and turbulent. He’s giving you a quizzical look, and you purge your head of cotton. “Afraid, I mean.”

He’s staring at you, or rather into you, silently begging you to continue. You swallow.

“I don’t…I don’t know how…” 

You grow hot, anxiety settling uncomfortably in your stomach like a bad meal. You’re meeting his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to break down into tears. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to wave a white flag, and scream “I surrender!” But you don’t. Not this time.

“I know that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest, or give you a reason why. I’m sorry that I left you alone, and I’m sorry that you had to save my ass tonight. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me because you do.” You’re sobbing at this point, and you feel him envelop you, all warmth and compassion, but you keep going, spilling your guts into his shoulder. 

“I’m scared, Hunter. Scared that if I tell you I love you too, you won’t be there when I roll over in the morning.” You break through the dirt and the grime and the weeds, telling him what sat heavy on your chest for the past two weeks. Cutting through the vines and underbrush, you find your flowers, and pick one just for him. 

“I love you, Hunter.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his orbit. You cradle his cheek, hard and defined, and it fits so perfectly in your palm. You start tracing his features with your thumb, saving every bump, dip, and hollow in your memory–locking it away in your heart. 

Clothes are strewn around the room from the heat of your passion; you told him loved him, and he decided to show you how much he loved you. There was a warmth building up inside of him, and he wanted to share it with you.

You’re naked, but in a way feels good, in the way that gives you hickies and butterflies. He’s streaked by hues of dark blue, and you can’t help but think of the night sky: bold, bright, and beautiful. He’s beautiful. You press soft lips to his forehead, and he unconsciously pulls you closer. 

Your heart swells with gratitude; after all of it, he stuck by you. Had the roles been reversed, you knew that he would’ve never left you alone on that balcony, reaching into the stars by yourself. He pried open your ribs, searching for your heart when you couldn’t do it yourself. He saw you bleeding and carved out pieces of himself to patch you up with. You close your eyes, and the only thing behind them are pictures of both of you.

He’s still there when you roll over in the morning.

[screamingintothestarss]

thank you!! so glad you're enjoying my writing, it means so much ❤️

dark blue

summary: you’re hurting, and you don’t know if you can let hunter in

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: mature (17+)

warnings: mentions of drinking and alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of vomiting, angst, hurt with comfort, heavy feelings, kissing, non-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy, mature themes in general, mutual pining, swearing, reader kinda sucks with emotions

word count: 3.9k

notes: bone apple teeth! dies

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Your arm hangs over the tub's porcelain edge, beads of water streaking down the skin like rain. Bubbles and foam have long dissolved, yet you remain uncomfortably unmoving, eyes waterlogged and heavy. You don’t know how long you’ve been submerged, your skin beginning to prune and wrinkle much like your demeanor tonight. The weight of your loathing pulls down on your eyes, and you let them slip closed. 

Pulsing lights, loud music, and a mass of writhing bodies replay under your eyelids. Your stomach sours, and the feeling claws up your throat like the drink you tossed back two hours ago. A drunken holo, strong hands, and the heady scent of him remind you of why you’re even here. You sink further down into the tub, hoping that somehow the water will wash away your guilt.

You hiss as a raw ankle brushes along the bottom; you’d figured those strappy heels weren’t a good idea, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. You had a good time, you think. You had a good time, but the tears streaming down your face held their own narrative. You let out a choked sob, but before you can consider pulling it together, a gentle knock at the door has you reeling.

“Are you okay?” Hunter’s voice comes through muffled from behind the door. His tone is dripping with worry, and the knot in your stomach tightens. 

Are you okay? The question hangs over your head like a forbidden fruit, daring you to bite. You want to sink your teeth in and spill your guts–to tell him that you're not okay and that you need him, that you want-

He calls your name, and you hear his hand settling on the door's console. His concern nearly breaks your heart.

A scratchy "fine" is all you can muster. You're trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, all jagged and misshapen, but your hands are beginning to bleed. 

You can still feel him hovering behind the door, the air heavy enough to cut through. You can’t trust yourself to say anything else. 

He knows he’s hovering; he knows that you know he’s hovering. He shouldn’t be, though. He should be giving you the space you need right now, not rolling a question in between his teeth. He swallows it, choosing to leave you be, and pads back over into the living room.

A holomovie plays on the television, but he pays it no mind. 

I'm losing it, he thinks, brown-grey eyes flitting towards the bathroom door every few seconds. His hands unconsciously twirl a pen in between deft fingers, senses on the cusp of overload. Normally the thought of you filled him with something warm and saccharine, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. But now, with you being in the state that you're in, he can't help but feel prickly and uncomfortable. 

He'd been asleep when he got the call, eyes glossed over, squinting over a blue comlink. Your slurred voice and drunken divulgences had him vertiginous, chest cracking open and hands all clammy. You hadn't spoken to each other since the misunderstanding, as you had put it, from two weeks ago. You said that you wanted your space, and he respected that. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to just hold you. He's staring at the door, he realizes, unconsciously listening for any sign of you. 

He's your Jedi Knight; your protector. Without a doubt, he'd go to war for you, hands all filthy and bloodied and split if it meant yours could remain clean. 

It was also why he felt like utter shit when he pulled up to the bar to see you slumped over inside a comm booth. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Fuck," he breathes, clambering out of his speeder and making his way to you. He swears he's never moved faster in his life, the cuffs of his jeans dampening from each wet slap of his boots on the pavement. He approaches the glass doors, and his eyes focus on your watery form. The tendons in his heart snap. 

Your face is ruddy and sticky with sweat, strands of hair clinging to your forehead like a halo. A pretty dress is smattered with stains, no doubt from a drink, or drinks, that you'd likely spilled on yourself. Tears streak your face, taking what was left of your makeup with them.

You're a mess.

Without hesitation, he hooks his arm under your knees and uses the other to support your back. He shifts on his weight, and your cheek lazily slumps against his firm chest.

"I've got you," he breathes. "I've got you." 

His steps are careful, calculated. Like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he cradles you with reverence. He lays you down gently in the backseat, sliding his jacket down strong arms and draping it over your pretty figure. Calloused fingers brush away the wisps of hair stuck to your face, and you begin to stir.

Your head lolls to the side, and a choked groan rolls out of your throat. You feel like a hammer is cracking down against your skull, a poisonous rhythm that has you almost spilling the contents of tonight on rubber floor liner. 

Hunter scrambles to the middle console, plucking a bottle from the cupholder. You feel a familiar hand on your arm, calm and inviting; the opposite of how you're feeling right now. His warmth is the eye of your storm, and you're craving more. 

"Hey," he rasps, his timbre clattering around in your ears, replacing the loud thump thump thumping of your heart. It's gentle and sweet, and your bleary eyes find his amidst a dark sky and flashing lights. 

"Hunt..." is all you can say, the word clawing its way through your teeth. 

A strong hand slides in between your shoulder blades, and slowly sits you up. The bottle of something is pressed to your lips, and you part them. The liquid runs down your throat; an oasis in a desert, it brings you back to life. 

"I'm gonna take us home, okay?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Home. Even inebriated, his words had nearly knocked you flat on your ass. This wasn't your home, it was his. You were sitting in his bathtub, in his bathroom: in his home. 

He opened himself up to you in ways you didn't think possible; you held the keys to his heart, locked the door, and ran. 

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him too. He was so sure, so hopeful that the stars had aligned it for you both. He was so sure that your souls had woven themselves together, an intricate tapestry of adoration and understanding no saber could cut through. Maybe the seams weren't strong enough.

Your watery reflection stares back at you, and your lungs constrict.

You can't do this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You open the door, a cloud of hot steam following you as you pad towards the living room. Hunter had given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts to wear, and the fabric clings awkwardly to your frame.

Hunter sits on the sofa, pretending to watch the TV. 

"Didn't know you had a thing for fixer-uppers," you tease. Your heart's not in it, but you want to break through the tension somehow. You miss the way he takes a breath before facing you.

You're fully clothed, yet you feel so naked in front of him. You want to cover up, throwing a flustered “Get out!” over your shoulder whilst you find something to conceal your vulnerability with.

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to your light. You're swallowed by his shirt and his shorts, and it all begins to feel so domestic. He can't help it, letting his mind wander into uncharted territory–a thick jungle of things said and unsaid. Maybe he could've woken up to the sight of you in it, your face squished into plush pillows, serene as ever. Maybe he could've wrapped his arms around you, bunching the fabric up to your waist, tracing the sultry curve of thigh. He'd take care of you, love you the way you needed, the way you deserved.

Maybe he could've been something more to you.

You're melting under his gaze, white-hot electricity coursing through your veins. Your mouth opens.

"I'm-"

"Hey, I-"

You both speak at the same time; your lips clamp shut, and he does the same. He stares at you, silently begging you to say something. You take the hint.

"I'm sorry." The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, the grit of your guilt spilling over. Every nerve in your body is lit ablaze, and you're too wrecked to snuff them out. 

Like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, you want to run. You're looking this way and that, arms self-soothingly folded over your torso. You rock on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do with yourself.  

He sighs, thick and heavy. "Do you know what could've happened to you?" 

The implications are all there. Maker knows what could've happened had you not dialed his number. And you knew it. 

You're quiet. You don't know what else to say; what else is there to say?

Wordlessly, he pads over to you, his familiar warmth spreading across your shoulders and leading you toward the sofa. He sits you down, and it's frustratingly gentle.

"Are you hungry?" 

"No." The word darts through your teeth quicker than you expect, and it makes you wince. 

He chuckles at that. "Liar."

You let out a small laugh through your nose, breezy and cool. He'd always been able to read you; his senses were always keen when it came to you, and you swore he knew you better than you knew yourself at times. Like some sort of omniscient deity, he could see right through you, cutting through all the weeds and all the bullshit. 

But you couldn't handle that right now.

He's in the kitchen, making a sandwich, you think. You laugh to yourself, it's tight, but the thoughts of him stumbling around in the kitchen make you a little warmer. 

He'd always been a terrible cook, fumbling around everywhere and making a mess of himself. He was like a rancor in a china shop, utter destruction following in his wake. He'd given up on trying to learn, and you'd given up on trying to teach him. 

You tentatively turn towards the open kitchen, and then you're staring. Your eyes trace over his features; like a painter studying his muse, you note every detail, every stroke of the brush you'd need to make. Deep brown eyes are hyper-focused, framed by long brown locks curling down to his shoulders, a red bandana holding it all together. A strong aquiline nose crests over a chiseled face and stubbled jaw; maker, he was beautiful. 

You assumed he was a bit of a player when you first met; a lethal combo of face and body that left a string of holo-frequencies scrawled onto sticky notes and a series of romantic escapades; and maybe you were right. He'd been in and out of bedrooms before, maybe in search of the same thing you were: but you didn't even know what that was yet. 

You got to know him, peeling back all the layers and fluff and stripping him down to the core. You realized just how wrong you had him. He was always a gentleman, a gemstone in the dirt. He never played games or messed around for the hell of it; he was real. You weren't used to that.

Maybe it's why the pool of regret in your stomach swallowed you whole tonight, leaving you with a bruised ankle and a stained dress. 

You slump against plush cushions, heart heavy and mind spasming. You're tired in every sense of the word, the gears in your head creaking to a halt; you've got no juice left. 

Hunter returns from the kitchen, handing you a homemade sandwich and a bag of chips. 

"Thank you," you tell him. You don't think you've ever been more thankful for someone. He smiles at you, and it's warm–something you'd wrap in foil and save for later.

"Of course." He says it like it's obvious. Obvious that he'd be there for you when you needed him; he always was. 

He sits beside you on the sofa stealing shy glances at your side profile, and it hurts him. It hurts knowing that you would never want him in the way that he wanted you. He'd remain on the backburner then, starting the gas and keeping you warm if that's what you wanted. 

You catch him staring at you, and you stare right back. He knew you, but you'd argue you knew him better. His eyes are trying to tell you something, and that knot in your stomach returns. 

He wants to talk about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You stare into the dark blue of the sky, cool and vast like the deep end of a pool; you want to dive in and drown in it. Stars are all smattered against the surface as if someone had flicked a paint brush against it, and you try to reach up and grab one.

"Not getting lost up there are you?" a voice says to your right, and you nearly jump ten feet in the air.

"Shit-!"

"M'sorry," Hunter laughs, and it instantly dissolves your annoyance. "Was gonna ask if you were ready to go?" His eyes flash down on you, and you're beginning to get lost in hues of brown and gold.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of cobwebs and butterflies before you answer. "Yeah," you breathe. "You made reservations, right?" "

"Yeah, ten o'clock." 

Then you're staring at each other. Something in the air shifts, and you both know it. These little moments you've had with each other were happening more often; like the steady drip of water in a bucket, you'd walked away for a second, and now it's on the brink of overflow. 

The woody scent of his cologne fries your senses, and you try to keep your eyes from shamelessly ravaging his form. 

But Hunter's unabashed, unshameful without remorse. His eyes flit up and down your curves, taking in how your dress hugs you in all the right places.  You playfully slap his arm.

"Quit that!" But you don't mean it, a smile spreading across your face like butter. 

He meets your eyes again, and he doesn't hear you call his name over the thumping of his heart. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, your line cast.

"Hunter?" His name falls from your lips again, and he's just staring; your presence alone is a siren's call, and he's about to end up floating in the depths below. 

He has to do this, he thinks. He's been waiting for the perfect time, an opportunity to give himself over to you; to tell you how you've infiltrated his very core, molding it into your shape. To tell you how often he thinks of you, his head full of sugar and cotton and everything you.

 The tick tick tick of the clock is winding down, and he's falling behind. 

"Hunt-"

"I love you!”

You're frozen. The fire lit in your belly is put out cold, and now you're left shaking. 

Fuck.

The words don't sit in your stomach right, twisting and turning and gnawing at you as they settle to the bottom. They wrap themselves around your neck and squeeze. His confession shouldn't be coming as a surprise to you; the signs were always there, big bold letters and all: I love you.

You hold onto the balcony railing in an attempt to ground yourself. A hand cools the white-hot grip you have on the metal bars.

"Are you okay?" His voice is worried–terrified, even. He fucked up. The timing was all wrong; he should've told you sooner, or later. Maybe he was being selfish, unfairly assuming your heart did rounds in your ears when you were around him. Maybe he-

"I can't do this." Your voice comes out creaky and broken, and Hunter feels his chest cave in. 

He feels awful, the kind that leaves you with cracked ribs and a broken jaw. He took a risk, diving into those dark depths, and ended up being pulled straight under. 

But he was so sure.

He does what does best; he comforts you. Large palms caress your shoulders as they begin to shake, the weight of his words settling in the gaps. 

"I'm so sorry," he's telling you, and it's so soft and sincere it has you heaving. "I'm sorry…I never meant to hurt you." 

That seals it, and you're sobbing even harder: all hot tears and a snotty nose. 

You're no stranger to hurt. You'd tried your hand at relationships before, throwing darts at the board until something stuck. You'd accounted for the grit and grime: the song and dance of trying to love someone else, except you had two left feet. Once the music stopped, you'd turn over, your partner long gone. 

And so you buried the dartboard along with everything else, packing it away into the dirt like cement, and walked away. 

And then he came along.

All charm and smolder, sweeping you off of your feet with ease. You both were like magnets; there was no push and pull, no tugging on a rope or trying to keep him tethered, he was always drawn to you. He understood you, believed in you. He introduced you to his brothers and sister, giving you a family of your own; something to always keep close to your heart. 

And you didn’t want to lose that.

Love just erodes things, in your eyes. 

“Just go.” It comes out defeated, pathetic. A boulder in your throat, you’re barely able to say the words, much less to him. You do what you do best: run away. 

He can’t be hearing you correctly. He lets go of you, much to his chagrin, and steps away. A strong jaw locks–petrified. He’d planted the seeds of you in his heart, and you’d ripped them out by the root. Your words clatter around in his head, but he reigns them in and takes a good look:

This isn’t you. 

“What’s going on?” He says it as gently as he can, like soothing a wounded animal, he doesn’t want to scare you away any more than he already has. 

You can’t look him in the eye. Bile edges on your teeth and your next words come out venomous: “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Yes, I do.

“Just leave me alone-”

Please don’t go.

“I just can’t-”

I will, for you.

Like a child learning to speak, your words trip and tumble over themselves. There’s too much to say, that grime still under your fingernails. How do you articulate two years of pain? You feel him stepping closer to you, and that gnawing urge to flee at the base of your skull chews into your brain. Rough palms curl around your arms, and he turns you around so that you’re facing him. He stares into watery red eyes and feels his heart split. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he’s far from that, but he just needs to know–to understand what all of this meant to you. But he needs to check in on you first; like he always has. 

“Tell me what’s wrong…please?” He’s pleading with you, and you feel sick. You know you’re pushing him away, culling peonies and roses, and leaving nothing but dirt. You meet his eyes: brown, gold, and gray. 

He bristles as if caught off guard, but he recovers just as quickly. His lips part, the question practically hanging out of his mouth.

“Are you afraid?”

You shut down after that. He tries to reel you back in, but you sever the line. He begs you for an answer, an explanation, but you can’t give him one even if you want to. Push and pull, push and pull; you tell him that you want your space, and leave him alone on that balcony. He shatters, and you step on the jagged pieces as you walk away. 

He stares up into the sky, that vast dark blue, stars reflecting in teary hues of brown and grey. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I just-”

“I am.” You interject; like the waves on Kamino, your voice rolls out uneasy and turbulent. He’s giving you a quizzical look, and you purge your head of cotton. “Afraid, I mean.”

He’s staring at you, or rather into you, silently begging you to continue. You swallow.

“I don’t…I don’t know how…” 

You grow hot, anxiety settling uncomfortably in your stomach like a bad meal. You’re meeting his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to break down into tears. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to wave a white flag, and scream “I surrender!” But you don’t. Not this time.

“I know that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest, or give you a reason why. I’m sorry that I left you alone, and I’m sorry that you had to save my ass tonight. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me because you do.” You’re sobbing at this point, and you feel him envelop you, all warmth and compassion, but you keep going, spilling your guts into his shoulder. 

“I’m scared, Hunter. Scared that if I tell you I love you too, you won’t be there when I roll over in the morning.” You break through the dirt and the grime and the weeds, telling him what sat heavy on your chest for the past two weeks. Cutting through the vines and underbrush, you find your flowers, and pick one just for him. 

“I love you, Hunter.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his orbit. You cradle his cheek, hard and defined, and it fits so perfectly in your palm. You start tracing his features with your thumb, saving every bump, dip, and hollow in your memory–locking it away in your heart. 

Clothes are strewn around the room from the heat of your passion; you told him loved him, and decided to show you how much he loved you. There was a warmth building up inside of him, and he wanted to share it with you.

You’re naked, but in a way feels good, in the way that gives you hickies and butterflies. He’s streaked by hues of dark blue, and you can’t help but think of the night sky: bold, bright, and beautiful. He’s beautiful. You press soft lips to his forehead, and he unconsciously pulls you closer. 

Your heart swells with gratitude; after all of it, he stuck by you. Had the roles been reversed, you knew that he would’ve never left you alone on that balcony, reaching into the stars by yourself. He pried open your ribs, searching for your heart when you couldn’t do it yourself. He saw you bleeding and carved out pieces of himself to patch you up with. You close your eyes, and the only thing behind them are pictures of both of you.

He’s still there when you roll over in the morning.

[screamingintothestarss]

you are so kind!! thank you so much!! 💙

dark blue

summary: you’re hurting, and you don’t know if you can let hunter in

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: mature (17+)

warnings: mentions of drinking and alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of vomiting, angst, hurt with comfort, heavy feelings, kissing, non-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy, mature themes in general, mutual pining, swearing, reader kinda sucks with emotions

word count: 3.9k

notes: bone apple teeth! dies

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Your arm hangs over the tub's porcelain edge, beads of water streaking down the skin like rain. Bubbles and foam have long dissolved, yet you remain uncomfortably unmoving, eyes waterlogged and heavy. You don’t know how long you’ve been submerged, your skin beginning to prune and wrinkle much like your demeanor tonight. The weight of your loathing pulls down on your eyes, and you let them slip closed. 

Pulsing lights, loud music, and a mass of writhing bodies replay under your eyelids. Your stomach sours, and the feeling claws up your throat like the drink you tossed back two hours ago. A drunken holo, strong hands, and the heady scent of him remind you of why you’re even here. You sink further down into the tub, hoping that somehow the water will wash away your guilt.

You hiss as a raw ankle brushes along the bottom; you’d figured those strappy heels weren’t a good idea, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. You had a good time, you think. You had a good time, but the tears streaming down your face held their own narrative. You let out a choked sob, but before you can consider pulling it together, a gentle knock at the door has you reeling.

“Are you okay?” Hunter’s voice comes through muffled from behind the door. His tone is dripping with worry, and the knot in your stomach tightens. 

Are you okay? The question hangs over your head like a forbidden fruit, daring you to bite. You want to sink your teeth in and spill your guts–to tell him that you're not okay and that you need him, that you want-

He calls your name, and you hear his hand settling on the door's console. His concern nearly breaks your heart.

A scratchy "fine" is all you can muster. You're trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, all jagged and misshapen, but your hands are beginning to bleed. 

You can still feel him hovering behind the door, the air heavy enough to cut through. You can’t trust yourself to say anything else. 

He knows he’s hovering; he knows that you know he’s hovering. He shouldn’t be, though. He should be giving you the space you need right now, not rolling a question in between his teeth. He swallows it, choosing to leave you be, and pads back over into the living room.

A holomovie plays on the television, but he pays it no mind. 

I'm losing it, he thinks, brown-grey eyes flitting towards the bathroom door every few seconds. His hands unconsciously twirl a pen in between deft fingers, senses on the cusp of overload. Normally the thought of you filled him with something warm and saccharine, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. But now, with you being in the state that you're in, he can't help but feel prickly and uncomfortable. 

He'd been asleep when he got the call, eyes glossed over, squinting over a blue comlink. Your slurred voice and drunken divulgences had him vertiginous, chest cracking open and hands all clammy. You hadn't spoken to each other since the misunderstanding, as you had put it, from two weeks ago. You said that you wanted your space, and he respected that. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to just hold you. He's staring at the door, he realizes, unconsciously listening for any sign of you. 

He's your Jedi Knight; your protector. Without a doubt, he'd go to war for you, hands all filthy and bloodied and split if it meant yours could remain clean. 

It was also why he felt like utter shit when he pulled up to the bar to see you slumped over inside a comm booth. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Fuck," he breathes, clambering out of his speeder and making his way to you. He swears he's never moved faster in his life, the cuffs of his jeans dampening from each wet slap of his boots on the pavement. He approaches the glass doors, and his eyes focus on your watery form. The tendons in his heart snap. 

Your face is ruddy and sticky with sweat, strands of hair clinging to your forehead like a halo. A pretty dress is smattered with stains, no doubt from a drink, or drinks, that you'd likely spilled on yourself. Tears streak your face, taking what was left of your makeup with them.

You're a mess.

Without hesitation, he hooks his arm under your knees and uses the other to support your back. He shifts on his weight, and your cheek lazily slumps against his firm chest.

"I've got you," he breathes. "I've got you." 

His steps are careful, calculated. Like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he cradles you with reverence. He lays you down gently in the backseat, sliding his jacket down strong arms and draping it over your pretty figure. Calloused fingers brush away the wisps of hair stuck to your face, and you begin to stir.

Your head lolls to the side, and a choked groan rolls out of your throat. You feel like a hammer is cracking down against your skull, a poisonous rhythm that has you almost spilling the contents of tonight on rubber floor liner. 

Hunter scrambles to the middle console, plucking a bottle from the cupholder. You feel a familiar hand on your arm, calm and inviting; the opposite of how you're feeling right now. His warmth is the eye of your storm, and you're craving more. 

"Hey," he rasps, his timbre clattering around in your ears, replacing the loud thump thump thumping of your heart. It's gentle and sweet, and your bleary eyes find his amidst a dark sky and flashing lights. 

"Hunt..." is all you can say, the word clawing its way through your teeth. 

A strong hand slides in between your shoulder blades, and slowly sits you up. The bottle of something is pressed to your lips, and you part them. The liquid runs down your throat; an oasis in a desert, it brings you back to life. 

"I'm gonna take us home, okay?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Home. Even inebriated, his words had nearly knocked you flat on your ass. This wasn't your home, it was his. You were sitting in his bathtub, in his bathroom: in his home. 

He opened himself up to you in ways you didn't think possible; you held the keys to his heart, locked the door, and ran. 

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him too. He was so sure, so hopeful that the stars had aligned it for you both. He was so sure that your souls had woven themselves together, an intricate tapestry of adoration and understanding no saber could cut through. Maybe the seams weren't strong enough.

Your watery reflection stares back at you, and your lungs constrict.

You can't do this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You open the door, a cloud of hot steam following you as you pad towards the living room. Hunter had given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts to wear, and the fabric clings awkwardly to your frame.

Hunter sits on the sofa, pretending to watch the TV. 

"Didn't know you had a thing for fixer-uppers," you tease. Your heart's not in it, but you want to break through the tension somehow. You miss the way he takes a breath before facing you.

You're fully clothed, yet you feel so naked in front of him. You want to cover up, throwing a flustered “Get out!” over your shoulder whilst you find something to conceal your vulnerability with.

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to your light. You're swallowed by his shirt and his shorts, and it all begins to feel so domestic. He can't help it, letting his mind wander into uncharted territory–a thick jungle of things said and unsaid. Maybe he could've woken up to the sight of you in it, your face squished into plush pillows, serene as ever. Maybe he could've wrapped his arms around you, bunching the fabric up to your waist, tracing the sultry curve of thigh. He'd take care of you, love you the way you needed, the way you deserved.

Maybe he could've been something more to you.

You're melting under his gaze, white-hot electricity coursing through your veins. Your mouth opens.

"I'm-"

"Hey, I-"

You both speak at the same time; your lips clamp shut, and he does the same. He stares at you, silently begging you to say something. You take the hint.

"I'm sorry." The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, the grit of your guilt spilling over. Every nerve in your body is lit ablaze, and you're too wrecked to snuff them out. 

Like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, you want to run. You're looking this way and that, arms self-soothingly folded over your torso. You rock on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do with yourself.  

He sighs, thick and heavy. "Do you know what could've happened to you?" 

The implications are all there. Maker knows what could've happened had you not dialed his number. And you knew it. 

You're quiet. You don't know what else to say; what else is there to say?

Wordlessly, he pads over to you, his familiar warmth spreading across your shoulders and leading you toward the sofa. He sits you down, and it's frustratingly gentle.

"Are you hungry?" 

"No." The word darts through your teeth quicker than you expect, and it makes you wince. 

He chuckles at that. "Liar."

You let out a small laugh through your nose, breezy and cool. He'd always been able to read you; his senses were always keen when it came to you, and you swore he knew you better than you knew yourself at times. Like some sort of omniscient deity, he could see right through you, cutting through all the weeds and all the bullshit. 

But you couldn't handle that right now.

He's in the kitchen, making a sandwich, you think. You laugh to yourself, it's tight, but the thoughts of him stumbling around in the kitchen make you a little warmer. 

He'd always been a terrible cook, fumbling around everywhere and making a mess of himself. He was like a rancor in a china shop, utter destruction following in his wake. He'd given up on trying to learn, and you'd given up on trying to teach him. 

You tentatively turn towards the open kitchen, and then you're staring. Your eyes trace over his features; like a painter studying his muse, you note every detail, every stroke of the brush you'd need to make. Deep brown eyes are hyper-focused, framed by long brown locks curling down to his shoulders, a red bandana holding it all together. A strong aquiline nose crests over a chiseled face and stubbled jaw; maker, he was beautiful. 

You assumed he was a bit of a player when you first met; a lethal combo of face and body that left a string of holo-frequencies scrawled onto sticky notes and a series of romantic escapades; and maybe you were right. He'd been in and out of bedrooms before, maybe in search of the same thing you were: but you didn't even know what that was yet. 

You got to know him, peeling back all the layers and fluff and stripping him down to the core. You realized just how wrong you had him. He was always a gentleman, a gemstone in the dirt. He never played games or messed around for the hell of it; he was real. You weren't used to that.

Maybe it's why the pool of regret in your stomach swallowed you whole tonight, leaving you with a bruised ankle and a stained dress. 

You slump against plush cushions, heart heavy and mind spasming. You're tired in every sense of the word, the gears in your head creaking to a halt; you've got no juice left. 

Hunter returns from the kitchen, handing you a homemade sandwich and a bag of chips. 

"Thank you," you tell him. You don't think you've ever been more thankful for someone. He smiles at you, and it's warm–something you'd wrap in foil and save for later.

"Of course." He says it like it's obvious. Obvious that he'd be there for you when you needed him; he always was. 

He sits beside you on the sofa stealing shy glances at your side profile, and it hurts him. It hurts knowing that you would never want him in the way that he wanted you. He'd remain on the backburner then, starting the gas and keeping you warm if that's what you wanted. 

You catch him staring at you, and you stare right back. He knew you, but you'd argue you knew him better. His eyes are trying to tell you something, and that knot in your stomach returns. 

He wants to talk about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You stare into the dark blue of the sky, cool and vast like the deep end of a pool; you want to dive in and drown in it. Stars are all smattered against the surface as if someone had flicked a paint brush against it, and you try to reach up and grab one.

"Not getting lost up there are you?" a voice says to your right, and you nearly jump ten feet in the air.

"Shit-!"

"M'sorry," Hunter laughs, and it instantly dissolves your annoyance. "Was gonna ask if you were ready to go?" His eyes flash down on you, and you're beginning to get lost in hues of brown and gold.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of cobwebs and butterflies before you answer. "Yeah," you breathe. "You made reservations, right?" "

"Yeah, ten o'clock." 

Then you're staring at each other. Something in the air shifts, and you both know it. These little moments you've had with each other were happening more often; like the steady drip of water in a bucket, you'd walked away for a second, and now it's on the brink of overflow. 

The woody scent of his cologne fries your senses, and you try to keep your eyes from shamelessly ravaging his form. 

But Hunter's unabashed, unshameful without remorse. His eyes flit up and down your curves, taking in how your dress hugs you in all the right places.  You playfully slap his arm.

"Quit that!" But you don't mean it, a smile spreading across your face like butter. 

He meets your eyes again, and he doesn't hear you call his name over the thumping of his heart. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, your line cast.

"Hunter?" His name falls from your lips again, and he's just staring; your presence alone is a siren's call, and he's about to end up floating in the depths below. 

He has to do this, he thinks. He's been waiting for the perfect time, an opportunity to give himself over to you; to tell you how you've infiltrated his very core, molding it into your shape. To tell you how often he thinks of you, his head full of sugar and cotton and everything you.

 The tick tick tick of the clock is winding down, and he's falling behind. 

"Hunt-"

"I love you!”

You're frozen. The fire lit in your belly is put out cold, and now you're left shaking. 

Fuck.

The words don't sit in your stomach right, twisting and turning and gnawing at you as they settle to the bottom. They wrap themselves around your neck and squeeze. His confession shouldn't be coming as a surprise to you; the signs were always there, big bold letters and all: I love you.

You hold onto the balcony railing in an attempt to ground yourself. A hand cools the white-hot grip you have on the metal bars.

"Are you okay?" His voice is worried–terrified, even. He fucked up. The timing was all wrong; he should've told you sooner, or later. Maybe he was being selfish, unfairly assuming your heart did rounds in your ears when you were around him. Maybe he-

"I can't do this." Your voice comes out creaky and broken, and Hunter feels his chest cave in. 

He feels awful, the kind that leaves you with cracked ribs and a broken jaw. He took a risk, diving into those dark depths, and ended up being pulled straight under. 

But he was so sure.

He does what does best; he comforts you. Large palms caress your shoulders as they begin to shake, the weight of his words settling in the gaps. 

"I'm so sorry," he's telling you, and it's so soft and sincere it has you heaving. "I'm sorry…I never meant to hurt you." 

That seals it, and you're sobbing even harder: all hot tears and a snotty nose. 

You're no stranger to hurt. You'd tried your hand at relationships before, throwing darts at the board until something stuck. You'd accounted for the grit and grime: the song and dance of trying to love someone else, except you had two left feet. Once the music stopped, you'd turn over, your partner long gone. 

And so you buried the dartboard along with everything else, packing it away into the dirt like cement, and walked away. 

And then he came along.

All charm and smolder, sweeping you off of your feet with ease. You both were like magnets; there was no push and pull, no tugging on a rope or trying to keep him tethered, he was always drawn to you. He understood you, believed in you. He introduced you to his brothers and sister, giving you a family of your own; something to always keep close to your heart. 

And you didn’t want to lose that.

Love just erodes things, in your eyes. 

“Just go.” It comes out defeated, pathetic. A boulder in your throat, you’re barely able to say the words, much less to him. You do what you do best: run away. 

He can’t be hearing you correctly. He lets go of you, much to his chagrin, and steps away. A strong jaw locks–petrified. He’d planted the seeds of you in his heart, and you’d ripped them out by the root. Your words clatter around in his head, but he reigns them in and takes a good look:

This isn’t you. 

“What’s going on?” He says it as gently as he can, like soothing a wounded animal, he doesn’t want to scare you away any more than he already has. 

You can’t look him in the eye. Bile edges on your teeth and your next words come out venomous: “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Yes, I do.

“Just leave me alone-”

Please don’t go.

“I just can’t-”

I will, for you.

Like a child learning to speak, your words trip and tumble over themselves. There’s too much to say, that grime still under your fingernails. How do you articulate two years of pain? You feel him stepping closer to you, and that gnawing urge to flee at the base of your skull chews into your brain. Rough palms curl around your arms, and he turns you around so that you’re facing him. He stares into watery red eyes and feels his heart split. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he’s far from that, but he just needs to know–to understand what all of this meant to you. But he needs to check in on you first; like he always has. 

“Tell me what’s wrong…please?” He’s pleading with you, and you feel sick. You know you’re pushing him away, culling peonies and roses, and leaving nothing but dirt. You meet his eyes: brown, gold, and gray. 

He bristles as if caught off guard, but he recovers just as quickly. His lips part, the question practically hanging out of his mouth.

“Are you afraid?”

You shut down after that. He tries to reel you back in, but you sever the line. He begs you for an answer, an explanation, but you can’t give him one even if you want to. Push and pull, push and pull; you tell him that you want your space, and leave him alone on that balcony. He shatters, and you step on the jagged pieces as you walk away. 

He stares up into the sky, that vast dark blue, stars reflecting in teary hues of brown and grey. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I just-”

“I am.” You interject; like the waves on Kamino, your voice rolls out uneasy and turbulent. He’s giving you a quizzical look, and you purge your head of cotton. “Afraid, I mean.”

He’s staring at you, or rather into you, silently begging you to continue. You swallow.

“I don’t…I don’t know how…” 

You grow hot, anxiety settling uncomfortably in your stomach like a bad meal. You’re meeting his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to break down into tears. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to wave a white flag, and scream “I surrender!” But you don’t. Not this time.

“I know that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest, or give you a reason why. I’m sorry that I left you alone, and I’m sorry that you had to save my ass tonight. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me because you do.” You’re sobbing at this point, and you feel him envelop you, all warmth and compassion, but you keep going, spilling your guts into his shoulder. 

“I’m scared, Hunter. Scared that if I tell you I love you too, you won’t be there when I roll over in the morning.” You break through the dirt and the grime and the weeds, telling him what sat heavy on your chest for the past two weeks. Cutting through the vines and underbrush, you find your flowers, and pick one just for him. 

“I love you, Hunter.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his orbit. You cradle his cheek, hard and defined, and it fits so perfectly in your palm. You start tracing his features with your thumb, saving every bump, dip, and hollow in your memory–locking it away in your heart. 

Clothes are strewn around the room from the heat of your passion; you told him loved him, and decided to show you how much he loved you. There was a warmth building up inside of him, and he wanted to share it with you.

You’re naked, but in a way feels good, in the way that gives you hickies and butterflies. He’s streaked by hues of dark blue, and you can’t help but think of the night sky: bold, bright, and beautiful. He’s beautiful. You press soft lips to his forehead, and he unconsciously pulls you closer. 

Your heart swells with gratitude; after all of it, he stuck by you. Had the roles been reversed, you knew that he would’ve never left you alone on that balcony, reaching into the stars by yourself. He pried open your ribs, searching for your heart when you couldn’t do it yourself. He saw you bleeding and carved out pieces of himself to patch you up with. You close your eyes, and the only thing behind them are pictures of both of you.

He’s still there when you roll over in the morning.

[screamingintothestarss]

dark blue

summary: you’re hurting, and you don’t know if you can let hunter in

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: mature (17+)

warnings: mentions of drinking and alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of vomiting, angst, hurt with comfort, heavy feelings, kissing, non-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy, mature themes in general, mutual pining, swearing, reader kinda sucks with emotions

word count: 3.9k

notes: bone apple teeth! dies

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Your arm hangs over the tub's porcelain edge, beads of water streaking down the skin like rain. Bubbles and foam have long dissolved, yet you remain uncomfortably unmoving, eyes waterlogged and heavy. You don’t know how long you’ve been submerged, your skin beginning to prune and wrinkle much like your demeanor tonight. The weight of your loathing pulls down on your eyes, and you let them slip closed. 

Pulsing lights, loud music, and a mass of writhing bodies replay under your eyelids. Your stomach sours, and the feeling claws up your throat like the drink you tossed back two hours ago. A drunken holo, strong hands, and the heady scent of him remind you of why you’re even here. You sink further down into the tub, hoping that somehow the water will wash away your guilt.

You hiss as a raw ankle brushes along the bottom; you’d figured those strappy heels weren’t a good idea, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. You had a good time, you think. You had a good time, but the tears streaming down your face held their own narrative. You let out a choked sob, but before you can consider pulling it together, a gentle knock at the door has you reeling.

“Are you okay?” Hunter’s voice comes through muffled from behind the door. His tone is dripping with worry, and the knot in your stomach tightens. 

Are you okay? The question hangs over your head like a forbidden fruit, daring you to bite. You want to sink your teeth in and spill your guts–to tell him that you're not okay and that you need him, that you want-

He calls your name, and you hear his hand settling on the door's console. His concern nearly breaks your heart.

A scratchy "fine" is all you can muster. You're trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, all jagged and misshapen, but your hands are beginning to bleed. 

You can still feel him hovering behind the door, the air heavy enough to cut through. You can’t trust yourself to say anything else. 

He knows he’s hovering; he knows that you know he’s hovering. He shouldn’t be, though. He should be giving you the space you need right now, not rolling a question in between his teeth. He swallows it, choosing to leave you be, and pads back over into the living room.

A holomovie plays on the television, but he pays it no mind. 

I'm losing it, he thinks, brown-grey eyes flitting towards the bathroom door every few seconds. His hands unconsciously twirl a pen in between deft fingers, senses on the cusp of overload. Normally the thought of you filled him with something warm and saccharine, like a blanket wrapped around his heart. But now, with you being in the state that you're in, he can't help but feel prickly and uncomfortable. 

He'd been asleep when he got the call, eyes glossed over, squinting over a blue comlink. Your slurred voice and drunken divulgences had him vertiginous, chest cracking open and hands all clammy. You hadn't spoken to each other since the misunderstanding, as you had put it, from two weeks ago. You said that you wanted your space, and he respected that. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to just hold you. He's staring at the door, he realizes, unconsciously listening for any sign of you. 

He's your Jedi Knight; your protector. Without a doubt, he'd go to war for you, hands all filthy and bloodied and split if it meant yours could remain clean. 

It was also why he felt like utter shit when he pulled up to the bar to see you slumped over inside a comm booth. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Fuck," he breathes, clambering out of his speeder and making his way to you. He swears he's never moved faster in his life, the cuffs of his jeans dampening from each wet slap of his boots on the pavement. He approaches the glass doors, and his eyes focus on your watery form. The tendons in his heart snap. 

Your face is ruddy and sticky with sweat, strands of hair clinging to your forehead like a halo. A pretty dress is smattered with stains, no doubt from a drink, or drinks, that you'd likely spilled on yourself. Tears streak your face, taking what was left of your makeup with them.

You're a mess.

Without hesitation, he hooks his arm under your knees and uses the other to support your back. He shifts on his weight, and your cheek lazily slumps against his firm chest.

"I've got you," he breathes. "I've got you." 

His steps are careful, calculated. Like a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he cradles you with reverence. He lays you down gently in the backseat, sliding his jacket down strong arms and draping it over your pretty figure. Calloused fingers brush away the wisps of hair stuck to your face, and you begin to stir.

Your head lolls to the side, and a choked groan rolls out of your throat. You feel like a hammer is cracking down against your skull, a poisonous rhythm that has you almost spilling the contents of tonight on rubber floor liner. 

Hunter scrambles to the middle console, plucking a bottle from the cupholder. You feel a familiar hand on your arm, calm and inviting; the opposite of how you're feeling right now. His warmth is the eye of your storm, and you're craving more. 

"Hey," he rasps, his timbre clattering around in your ears, replacing the loud thump thump thumping of your heart. It's gentle and sweet, and your bleary eyes find his amidst a dark sky and flashing lights. 

"Hunt..." is all you can say, the word clawing its way through your teeth. 

A strong hand slides in between your shoulder blades, and slowly sits you up. The bottle of something is pressed to your lips, and you part them. The liquid runs down your throat; an oasis in a desert, it brings you back to life. 

"I'm gonna take us home, okay?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Home. Even inebriated, his words had nearly knocked you flat on your ass. This wasn't your home, it was his. You were sitting in his bathtub, in his bathroom: in his home. 

He opened himself up to you in ways you didn't think possible; you held the keys to his heart, locked the door, and ran. 

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him too. He was so sure, so hopeful that the stars had aligned it for you both. He was so sure that your souls had woven themselves together, an intricate tapestry of adoration and understanding no saber could cut through. Maybe the seams weren't strong enough.

Your watery reflection stares back at you, and your lungs constrict.

You can't do this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You open the door, a cloud of hot steam following you as you pad towards the living room. Hunter had given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts to wear, and the fabric clings awkwardly to your frame.

Hunter sits on the sofa, pretending to watch the TV. 

"Didn't know you had a thing for fixer-uppers," you tease. Your heart's not in it, but you want to break through the tension somehow. You miss the way he takes a breath before facing you.

You're fully clothed, yet you feel so naked in front of him. You want to cover up, throwing a flustered “Get out!” over your shoulder whilst you find something to conceal your vulnerability with.

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to your light. You're swallowed by his shirt and his shorts, and it all begins to feel so domestic. He can't help it, letting his mind wander into uncharted territory–a thick jungle of things said and unsaid. Maybe he could've woken up to the sight of you in it, your face squished into plush pillows, serene as ever. Maybe he could've wrapped his arms around you, bunching the fabric up to your waist, tracing the sultry curve of thigh. He'd take care of you, love you the way you needed, the way you deserved.

Maybe he could've been something more to you.

You're melting under his gaze, white-hot electricity coursing through your veins. Your mouth opens.

"I'm-"

"Hey, I-"

You both speak at the same time; your lips clamp shut, and he does the same. He stares at you, silently begging you to say something. You take the hint.

"I'm sorry." The words feel like sandpaper on your tongue, the grit of your guilt spilling over. Every nerve in your body is lit ablaze, and you're too wrecked to snuff them out. 

Like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, you want to run. You're looking this way and that, arms self-soothingly folded over your torso. You rock on the balls of your feet, unsure what to do with yourself.  

He sighs, thick and heavy. "Do you know what could've happened to you?" 

The implications are all there. Maker knows what could've happened had you not dialed his number. And you knew it. 

You're quiet. You don't know what else to say; what else is there to say?

Wordlessly, he pads over to you, his familiar warmth spreading across your shoulders and leading you toward the sofa. He sits you down, and it's frustratingly gentle.

"Are you hungry?" 

"No." The word darts through your teeth quicker than you expect, and it makes you wince. 

He chuckles at that. "Liar."

You let out a small laugh through your nose, breezy and cool. He'd always been able to read you; his senses were always keen when it came to you, and you swore he knew you better than you knew yourself at times. Like some sort of omniscient deity, he could see right through you, cutting through all the weeds and all the bullshit. 

But you couldn't handle that right now.

He's in the kitchen, making a sandwich, you think. You laugh to yourself, it's tight, but the thoughts of him stumbling around in the kitchen make you a little warmer. 

He'd always been a terrible cook, fumbling around everywhere and making a mess of himself. He was like a rancor in a china shop, utter destruction following in his wake. He'd given up on trying to learn, and you'd given up on trying to teach him. 

You tentatively turn towards the open kitchen, and then you're staring. Your eyes trace over his features; like a painter studying his muse, you note every detail, every stroke of the brush you'd need to make. Deep brown eyes are hyper-focused, framed by long brown locks curling down to his shoulders, a red bandana holding it all together. A strong aquiline nose crests over a chiseled face and stubbled jaw; maker, he was beautiful. 

You assumed he was a bit of a player when you first met; a lethal combo of face and body that left a string of holo-frequencies scrawled onto sticky notes and a series of romantic escapades; and maybe you were right. He'd been in and out of bedrooms before, maybe in search of the same thing you were: but you didn't even know what that was yet. 

You got to know him, peeling back all the layers and fluff and stripping him down to the core. You realized just how wrong you had him. He was always a gentleman, a gemstone in the dirt. He never played games or messed around for the hell of it; he was real. You weren't used to that.

Maybe it's why the pool of regret in your stomach swallowed you whole tonight, leaving you with a bruised ankle and a stained dress. 

You slump against plush cushions, heart heavy and mind spasming. You're tired in every sense of the word, the gears in your head creaking to a halt; you've got no juice left. 

Hunter returns from the kitchen, handing you a homemade sandwich and a bag of chips. 

"Thank you," you tell him. You don't think you've ever been more thankful for someone. He smiles at you, and it's warm–something you'd wrap in foil and save for later.

"Of course." He says it like it's obvious. Obvious that he'd be there for you when you needed him; he always was. 

He sits beside you on the sofa stealing shy glances at your side profile, and it hurts him. It hurts knowing that you would never want him in the way that he wanted you. He'd remain on the backburner then, starting the gas and keeping you warm if that's what you wanted. 

You catch him staring at you, and you stare right back. He knew you, but you'd argue you knew him better. His eyes are trying to tell you something, and that knot in your stomach returns. 

He wants to talk about it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You stare into the dark blue of the sky, cool and vast like the deep end of a pool; you want to dive in and drown in it. Stars are all smattered against the surface as if someone had flicked a paint brush against it, and you try to reach up and grab one.

"Not getting lost up there are you?" a voice says to your right, and you nearly jump ten feet in the air.

"Shit-!"

"M'sorry," Hunter laughs, and it instantly dissolves your annoyance. "Was gonna ask if you were ready to go?" His eyes flash down on you, and you're beginning to get lost in hues of brown and gold.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of cobwebs and butterflies before you answer. "Yeah," you breathe. "You made reservations, right?" "

"Yeah, ten o'clock." 

Then you're staring at each other. Something in the air shifts, and you both know it. These little moments you've had with each other were happening more often; like the steady drip of water in a bucket, you'd walked away for a second, and now it's on the brink of overflow. 

The woody scent of his cologne fries your senses, and you try to keep your eyes from shamelessly ravaging his form. 

But Hunter's unabashed, unshameful without remorse. His eyes flit up and down your curves, taking in how your dress hugs you in all the right places.  You playfully slap his arm.

"Quit that!" But you don't mean it, a smile spreading across your face like butter. 

He meets your eyes again, and he doesn't hear you call his name over the thumping of his heart. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, your line cast.

"Hunter?" His name falls from your lips again, and he's just staring; your presence alone is a siren's call, and he's about to end up floating in the depths below. 

He has to do this, he thinks. He's been waiting for the perfect time, an opportunity to give himself over to you; to tell you how you've infiltrated his very core, molding it into your shape. To tell you how often he thinks of you, his head full of sugar and cotton and everything you.

 The tick tick tick of the clock is winding down, and he's falling behind. 

"Hunt-"

"I love you!”

You're frozen. The fire lit in your belly is put out cold, and now you're left shaking. 

Fuck.

The words don't sit in your stomach right, twisting and turning and gnawing at you as they settle to the bottom. They wrap themselves around your neck and squeeze. His confession shouldn't be coming as a surprise to you; the signs were always there, big bold letters and all: I love you.

You hold onto the balcony railing in an attempt to ground yourself. A hand cools the white-hot grip you have on the metal bars.

"Are you okay?" His voice is worried–terrified, even. He fucked up. The timing was all wrong; he should've told you sooner, or later. Maybe he was being selfish, unfairly assuming your heart did rounds in your ears when you were around him. Maybe he-

"I can't do this." Your voice comes out creaky and broken, and Hunter feels his chest cave in. 

He feels awful, the kind that leaves you with cracked ribs and a broken jaw. He took a risk, diving into those dark depths, and ended up being pulled straight under. 

But he was so sure.

He does what does best; he comforts you. Large palms caress your shoulders as they begin to shake, the weight of his words settling in the gaps. 

"I'm so sorry," he's telling you, and it's so soft and sincere it has you heaving. "I'm sorry…I never meant to hurt you." 

That seals it, and you're sobbing even harder: all hot tears and a snotty nose. 

You're no stranger to hurt. You'd tried your hand at relationships before, throwing darts at the board until something stuck. You'd accounted for the grit and grime: the song and dance of trying to love someone else, except you had two left feet. Once the music stopped, you'd turn over, your partner long gone. 

And so you buried the dartboard along with everything else, packing it away into the dirt like cement, and walked away. 

And then he came along.

All charm and smolder, sweeping you off of your feet with ease. You both were like magnets; there was no push and pull, no tugging on a rope or trying to keep him tethered, he was always drawn to you. He understood you, believed in you. He introduced you to his brothers and sister, giving you a family of your own; something to always keep close to your heart. 

And you didn’t want to lose that.

Love just erodes things, in your eyes. 

“Just go.” It comes out defeated, pathetic. A boulder in your throat, you’re barely able to say the words, much less to him. You do what you do best: run away. 

He can’t be hearing you correctly. He lets go of you, much to his chagrin, and steps away. A strong jaw locks–petrified. He’d planted the seeds of you in his heart, and you’d ripped them out by the root. Your words clatter around in his head, but he reigns them in and takes a good look:

This isn’t you. 

“What’s going on?” He says it as gently as he can, like soothing a wounded animal, he doesn’t want to scare you away any more than he already has. 

You can’t look him in the eye. Bile edges on your teeth and your next words come out venomous: “I don’t want to do this with you.”

Yes, I do.

“Just leave me alone-”

Please don’t go.

“I just can’t-”

I will, for you.

Like a child learning to speak, your words trip and tumble over themselves. There’s too much to say, that grime still under your fingernails. How do you articulate two years of pain? You feel him stepping closer to you, and that gnawing urge to flee at the base of your skull chews into your brain. Rough palms curl around your arms, and he turns you around so that you’re facing him. He stares into watery red eyes and feels his heart split. He doesn’t want to be selfish; he’s far from that, but he just needs to know–to understand what all of this meant to you. But he needs to check in on you first; like he always has. 

“Tell me what’s wrong…please?” He’s pleading with you, and you feel sick. You know you’re pushing him away, culling peonies and roses, and leaving nothing but dirt. You meet his eyes: brown, gold, and gray. 

He bristles as if caught off guard, but he recovers just as quickly. His lips part, the question practically hanging out of his mouth.

“Are you afraid?”

You shut down after that. He tries to reel you back in, but you sever the line. He begs you for an answer, an explanation, but you can’t give him one even if you want to. Push and pull, push and pull; you tell him that you want your space, and leave him alone on that balcony. He shatters, and you step on the jagged pieces as you walk away. 

He stares up into the sky, that vast dark blue, stars reflecting in teary hues of brown and grey. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I just-”

“I am.” You interject; like the waves on Kamino, your voice rolls out uneasy and turbulent. He’s giving you a quizzical look, and you purge your head of cotton. “Afraid, I mean.”

He’s staring at you, or rather into you, silently begging you to continue. You swallow.

“I don’t…I don’t know how…” 

You grow hot, anxiety settling uncomfortably in your stomach like a bad meal. You’re meeting his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to break down into tears. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to wave a white flag, and scream “I surrender!” But you don’t. Not this time.

“I know that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest, or give you a reason why. I’m sorry that I left you alone, and I’m sorry that you had to save my ass tonight. And I’m so sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me because you do.” You’re sobbing at this point, and you feel him envelop you, all warmth and compassion, but you keep going, spilling your guts into his shoulder. 

“I’m scared, Hunter. Scared that if I tell you I love you too, you won’t be there when I roll over in the morning.” You break through the dirt and the grime and the weeds, telling him what sat heavy on your chest for the past two weeks. Cutting through the vines and underbrush, you find your flowers, and pick one just for him. 

“I love you, Hunter.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his orbit. You cradle his cheek, hard and defined, and it fits so perfectly in your palm. You start tracing his features with your thumb, saving every bump, dip, and hollow in your memory–locking it away in your heart. 

Clothes are strewn around the room from the heat of your passion; you told him loved him, and he decided to show you how much he loved you. There was a warmth building up inside of him, and he wanted to share it with you.

You’re naked, but in a way feels good, in the way that gives you hickies and butterflies. He’s streaked by hues of dark blue, and you can’t help but think of the night sky: bold, bright, and beautiful. He’s beautiful. You press soft lips to his forehead, and he unconsciously pulls you closer. 

Your heart swells with gratitude; after all of it, he stuck by you. Had the roles been reversed, you knew that he would’ve never left you alone on that balcony, reaching into the stars by yourself. He pried open your ribs, searching for your heart when you couldn’t do it yourself. He saw you bleeding and carved out pieces of himself to patch you up with. You close your eyes, and the only thing behind them are pictures of both of you.

He’s still there when you roll over in the morning.

[screamingintothestarss]

hello and welcome! i'm reiya [20 she/her], and i love reading and writing fanfiction, so this is where i'll stuff it. this is a safe space for everyone; no hatred or bigotry of any kind will be tolerated here.

i am currently writing for the clones, but expect some avatar works to be scattered in here as well! 💙

last updated: 9/14/24

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

the bad batch

➼ sergeant hunter

maybe there's hope for us yet [ficlet] blue milk & roses [ficlet] dark blue [one shot]

➼ crosshair

winner! [to be added]

[screamingintothestarss]

thank you so much, that means a lot to me! glad you enjoyed!! ❤️ 💜

blue milk & roses

summary: you’ve been down lately, and hunter does something special for you

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: general

warnings: light kissing, sickly sweet fluff

word count: 997

authors note: apologies for any grammatical and spelling errors, i proofread as intensely as my smooth brain could

~~~~

The first rays of sunlight warm your eyelids, barely opening in response. Sleep weighs on you like a thick blanket, and you have no intention of shaking it off. A gentle groan tickles your throat, and you roll over, instinctively grabbing hold of the man next to you. You suspected he was using your various scrubs and bodywashes in the fresher, but you didn't remember him being this soft. You call out his name, an unintelligible mumble, and get no response.

"Hunter?" you repeat clearly now. Your eyes remain shut, too exhausted to even bother opening them. You lightly slap his form. "C'mon babe what's wrong...you've never given me the silent treatment," you rasp. 

No response. 

Your eyes snap open at his silence, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, ready to discuss whatever the hell this is, but he isn't there. You attempt to wipe the fog covering your eyes and blink. 

You'd been talking to his pillow.

"Ugh," you drawl, and plop right back down into the bedsheets. You sling a lazy elbow over your eyes in an attempt to block out the sun's warm assault. You raise your leg, heavy as durasteel, and use your foot to push the curtains closer together. Rays retreat into the window, and your leg drops back onto the mattress. You wonder where Hunter's gone off to, but sleep overtakes you instead. 

--

His eyes rake over your sleeping form with complete adoration. A calloused palm cradles your face, and he swears he's never felt anything softer. Gentle moonlight spills through the window, painting your bodies. He thinks you look ethereal like this, your peaceful face and pouty lips bathed in blues. He resists the urge to kiss you.

He's more than aware of how difficult things have been for you lately--coming home late, a drag in your feet, your clothes haphazardly strewn around the room with little consideration, your typical demeanor replaced by a mellow somberness. He knows you're tired, so he picked up the half you couldn't carry and set it on his shoulders. He'd walk a thousand miles just to see you smile. He knows this storm will pass, but he wants to cherish this peace you have right now.

Your lips part slightly as you fall deeper into sleep. Hunter cautiously takes your hips and slots you against him. He begins to cradle you, but you stir.

"Hunter?" a sigh breezes past your lips, barely audible. 

He shushes you lovingly and spoons you. You fall asleep instantly.

--

You leave the fresher, your step a little lighter than before. Last night was the best sleep you'd gotten in a while, despite the interruption. You get dressed and step out of your shared bedroom, and a pleasant smell fills your senses with warmth. You pad over to the kitchen, and your heart nearly overheats. 

The table is set perfectly for two, your already chair pulled out. A gorgeous arrangement of pink and white flowers takes the center, bright and lively. You don't miss how your favorite breakfast foods decorate your plate, steaming hot. A chilled glass of blue milk waits for you. 

"I'm sorry if I woke you," Hunter comes from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. His eyes never leave you--how could they? 

It's as if the air had been knocked from your lungs; you had no words to cough up. You stare at the arrangement, your lips parted and eyebrows all furrowed. Red bleeds onto your skin like watercolor on a page, and your vision goes misty.

He picks up on this immediately, setting the towel down and making his way to you. 

Calloused palms meet soft skin. "Hey, I didn't mean to-"

"I love you!" the words etched in your heart come crashing through your lips, and Hunter thinks he might combust.

His eyes soften and he holds you. You melt into him, like two pieces of a puzzle, you fit together perfectly. You tuck your chin into his shoulder and his cheek nestles in your hair. 

"I love you too," he says, resolute and affirming. "I knew you'd been having a hard time lately, and I...I just wanted to do something different for you."

You can't find the words, so you hold him tighter. 

"I got Echo and some other friends of mine to help out, which is why the house isn't currently in flames," he chuckles, and you laugh into his chest. "Thought about getting the rest of the boys but eh, they're no better than I am."

You straighten up and set your eyes upon his, and sparkling brown irises are peering back at you.

"It's perfect."

You place a chaste kiss on his lips before sitting down, and he tries to mentally extinguish the fire in his veins. He takes his seat across from you.

You stare at the flowers for a beat, a vibrant assortment of pinks and white with petals like butter. 

"They're beautiful, but they're spoiling the view," you tease.

"I'm inclined to agree," a husky timbre rattles around the space and into your ears, leaving you hot. He sets the vase on the kitchen counter and returns his attention to you, but you've already dug in. 

--

You lay in bed, the moon taking refuge by your window tonight. You trace the sharp planes of his face, stubble tickling your palm. His breathing is steady and gentle. A quiet sigh comes from him, and your heart nearly beats through your chest.

Your mind replays today's events: the brunch with him, a movie, general canoodling, and plenty of stolen kisses. He's like a tree, you think--solid and stoic and sturdy, yet giving life to everything around him. 

His visage begins to blur into hues of blue and black as your eyes slip closed. He's slung his arm around your middle at some point, and your legs are all tangled together. You sigh contentedly, heart and stomach full. 

You sleep better than you ever have. 

ending note: i have been diagnosed with hunter disease, and i hope they don’t find a cure anytime soon

[screamingintothestarss]

@skellymom "bananas for bandana", i'm stealing that 😭 and thank you so much!!! ❤️ 💙 💜

blue milk & roses

summary: you’ve been down lately, and hunter does something special for you

pairing: hunter x reader

rating: general

warnings: light kissing, sickly sweet fluff

word count: 997

authors note: apologies for any grammatical and spelling errors, i proofread as intensely as my smooth brain could

~~~~

The first rays of sunlight warm your eyelids, barely opening in response. Sleep weighs on you like a thick blanket, and you have no intention of shaking it off. A gentle groan tickles your throat, and you roll over, instinctively grabbing hold of the man next to you. You suspected he was using your various scrubs and bodywashes in the fresher, but you didn't remember him being this soft. You call out his name, an unintelligible mumble, and get no response.

"Hunter?" you repeat clearly now. Your eyes remain shut, too exhausted to even bother opening them. You lightly slap his form. "C'mon babe what's wrong...you've never given me the silent treatment," you rasp. 

No response. 

Your eyes snap open at his silence, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, ready to discuss whatever the hell this is, but he isn't there. You attempt to wipe the fog covering your eyes and blink. 

You'd been talking to his pillow.

"Ugh," you drawl, and plop right back down into the bedsheets. You sling a lazy elbow over your eyes in an attempt to block out the sun's warm assault. You raise your leg, heavy as durasteel, and use your foot to push the curtains closer together. Rays retreat into the window, and your leg drops back onto the mattress. You wonder where Hunter's gone off to, but sleep overtakes you instead. 

--

His eyes rake over your sleeping form with complete adoration. A calloused palm cradles your face, and he swears he's never felt anything softer. Gentle moonlight spills through the window, painting your bodies. He thinks you look ethereal like this, your peaceful face and pouty lips bathed in blues. He resists the urge to kiss you.

He's more than aware of how difficult things have been for you lately--coming home late, a drag in your feet, your clothes haphazardly strewn around the room with little consideration, your typical demeanor replaced by a mellow somberness. He knows you're tired, so he picked up the half you couldn't carry and set it on his shoulders. He'd walk a thousand miles just to see you smile. He knows this storm will pass, but he wants to cherish this peace you have right now.

Your lips part slightly as you fall deeper into sleep. Hunter cautiously takes your hips and slots you against him. He begins to cradle you, but you stir.

"Hunter?" a sigh breezes past your lips, barely audible. 

He shushes you lovingly and spoons you. You fall asleep instantly.

--

You leave the fresher, your step a little lighter than before. Last night was the best sleep you'd gotten in a while, despite the interruption. You get dressed and step out of your shared bedroom, and a pleasant smell fills your senses with warmth. You pad over to the kitchen, and your heart nearly overheats. 

The table is set perfectly for two, your already chair pulled out. A gorgeous arrangement of pink and white flowers takes the center, bright and lively. You don't miss how your favorite breakfast foods decorate your plate, steaming hot. A chilled glass of blue milk waits for you. 

"I'm sorry if I woke you," Hunter comes from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. His eyes never leave you--how could they? 

It's as if the air had been knocked from your lungs; you had no words to cough up. You stare at the arrangement, your lips parted and eyebrows all furrowed. Red bleeds onto your skin like watercolor on a page, and your vision goes misty.

He picks up on this immediately, setting the towel down and making his way to you. 

Calloused palms meet soft skin. "Hey, I didn't mean to-"

"I love you!" the words etched in your heart come crashing through your lips, and Hunter thinks he might combust.

His eyes soften and he holds you. You melt into him, like two pieces of a puzzle, you fit together perfectly. You tuck your chin into his shoulder and his cheek nestles in your hair. 

"I love you too," he says, resolute and affirming. "I knew you'd been having a hard time lately, and I...I just wanted to do something different for you."

You can't find the words, so you hold him tighter. 

"I got Echo and some other friends of mine to help out, which is why the house isn't currently in flames," he chuckles, and you laugh into his chest. "Thought about getting the rest of the boys but eh, they're no better than I am."

You straighten up and set your eyes upon his, and sparkling brown irises are peering back at you.

"It's perfect."

You place a chaste kiss on his lips before sitting down, and he tries to mentally extinguish the fire in his veins. He takes his seat across from you.

You stare at the flowers for a beat, a vibrant assortment of pinks and white with petals like butter. 

"They're beautiful, but they're spoiling the view," you tease.

"I'm inclined to agree," a husky timbre rattles around the space and into your ears, leaving you hot. He sets the vase on the kitchen counter and returns his attention to you, but you've already dug in. 

--

You lay in bed, the moon taking refuge by your window tonight. You trace the sharp planes of his face, stubble tickling your palm. His breathing is steady and gentle. A quiet sigh comes from him, and your heart nearly beats through your chest.

Your mind replays today's events: the brunch with him, a movie, general canoodling, and plenty of stolen kisses. He's like a tree, you think--solid and stoic and sturdy, yet giving life to everything around him. 

His visage begins to blur into hues of blue and black as your eyes slip closed. He's slung his arm around your middle at some point, and your legs are all tangled together. You sigh contentedly, heart and stomach full. 

You sleep better than you ever have. 

ending note: i have been diagnosed with hunter disease, and i hope they don’t find a cure anytime soon