#Sergeant Blue | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

screamingintothestarss · 4 months ago

Text

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.

#i think i might like the color blue #idk tho #tbb hunter x reader #star wars fanfiction #hunter tbb #sergeant hunter #the bad batch fanfiction #tbb x reader #the bad batch x reader #clone x reader #i suck at using colons #but they're so cool though

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