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choose your fighter

Tech without his helmet.

composite concept sketch.

I see your Rambo Hunter and I raise you ponytail Hunter. 

The Bad Batch, deleted scene ep 107

THE CLONE WARS | 5.01 “Revival”

YUUUUMMMMMYYYYYY

HUNTER

credit to @Dany_G_N_ on twitter

WOW

Hello! So I’m a shy follower that loves your works, and I’m afraid of asking publicly hence the anonymous.

If you are still writing prompts, I’d love #8 “You can have whatever you want. You just have to ask” with Hunter if that’s not too much to ask.

Congrats on many followers, you deserve hundreds more! 💖

Oooh, hi! Thank you both, this was a really great prompt. I had a lot of fun with it, and Hunter is always a nice challenge. I really hope you like what I came up with! 

(And please don’t be too shy to say hello! I understand if you don’t want to post publicly but I promise I don’t bite and I’d love to hear from you 💕) x

Pairing: Hunter x F!Reader Wordcount: 2.8k Rating: Explicit 18+ Warnings: Oral sex over clothing (f! receiving, implied m!receiving), Hunter is ✨sensitive✨

He’s just so calm. It’s almost unfair how calm he is, you think, wiping down the spirit-sticky bar top.

It’d been an uneventful night for a change and it was almost certainly thanks to his presence. Hunched broodily at the end of the bar as he’d methodically cleaned his vibroblade, none of the salon regulars had dared make an untoward comment to you tonight. It’d been nice, actually. You hadn’t expected him to hang around the whole night, not after you’d told him Cid wasn’t coming back until tomorrow afternoon. He’d shrugged, apparently unbothered about not getting paid straightaway.

“S’been getting crowded on the ship anyway,” he’d muttered. “Might as well keep an eye on things here.”

You’d had to suppress your smile. He’s barely said more than five words in a row to you the whole time you’ve known him, but you’ve come to crave his company. Cid hadn’t shared your sentiment, and you stifle a snort at the memory of her words as you tip out the dregs of a drink into the basin below you. “If dark, handsome and not-so-tall keeps lurking around my bar with a face like that, he’ll scare away all my customers.”

Now that the doors are locked and the place is at least slightly cleaner, you feel a weight leave your shoulders. Pouring two glasses of jet juice, you slip around the bar to lean beside him, sliding one of the drinks over. He raises an eyebrow in silent question, raising the glass and frowning at the contents.

“On the house,” you tell him, lifting your own glass to clink against his. “To say thank you for watching out for me all night.”

His eyes dart away from your face to consider the drink in his hand. “Cid probably won’t appreciate you pouring freebies. She already chewed me out once.”

You grin. “Really? What’d you do?”

He glances up at you for a fraction of a second, eyebrows furrowed and both elbows braced on the bar top as he tips a mouthful back. “Something about… keeping my mitts off her barmaid. I already told her I’d never try it with you, but she made a point of showing me her teeth all the same.”

Your heart gives a violent kick in your chest, and you keep your eyes lowered, hoping he can’t tell how much the words affected you. Sure, he’s a lot more interesting than any of the other men you’ve met on Ord Mantell; mysterious, tough and silent, his stoic, unapproachable demeanour incongruous with the respectful way he’d always spoken to you. You just hadn’t thought he’d be so drastically opposed to the idea of… trying it. It hurts a little bit.

You keep your tone lightly detached as you sip your own drink. “How’s Omega’s aim coming along? Am I gonna be patching any more holes in the walls?”

He runs a hand across his jaw, and you catch a glimpse of a row of scars across his knuckles. “Good. Better than expected. She learns fast.”

“She’s a smart kid,” you affirm, swirling the contents of your glass thoughtfully.

“Yeah. She… was the one who said I should come keep an eye on you for the night. Thought you might have some trouble without Cid here.”

Yet again you’re reminded that the kid seems to be the one calling the shots for the crew, and it makes your lips quirk up at the thought of a squad of hardened soldiers, sitting around awaiting directions from the little girl. He seems stiff about it, like he’s not used to following suggestions from anybody but himself. Which inspires your next question.

“So. You have a girl somewhere? In another system?”

He seems to almost startle at the suggestion, his head jerking up. “No.

“A boy, then?”

He shakes his head slowly, the shag of dark hair around his face shifting as he considers you. “What about you?” There’s something careful in his voice, and he watches as you smile shyly, shaking your own head.

“I’m on my own. Except for Cid, of course.”

He clears his throat. “Well. You could’ve had your pick of men in here tonight.”

You tilt your face to look across at him. He’s still frowning at the glass in his hand, the crooked bridge of his nose pronounced in profile view like this. Facing forward, you can’t see his tattoo. Just his bare skin; the high cheekbone down to his strong jawline. He’d taken off most of his armour when he’d come in, leaving it heaped behind the bar like usual. Without it, you can see the lines of his body clearly through the form-fitting black body glove: broad shoulders and chest tapering down to a narrow waist, the lean outline of muscle visible. “Could I?” you murmur. Your voice comes out low.

His gaze shifts sideways to meet yours. “They’d trip over themselves if they thought they had a chance. It’s hard to miss how… beautiful you are.”

Warmth blossoms up your neck, and there’s a flutter of emotion in your chest. He doesn’t say it like teasing, or flattery. He says it almost begrudgingly. Maybe… you misjudged him earlier. Maybe the only reason he’d never make an advance is out of respect, not from lack of want. It’s almost too much to hope for, but it’s enough to send the nervous excitement thrilling in your ribcage lower, down to the base of your stomach. You turn, leaning back on your elbows against the bar so you’re facing him. He’s avoiding looking directly at you, but you don’t miss the sudden stiffness in his posture. Now that’s interesting.

“You think I’m beautiful?”

He looks uncomfortable. “I’m… not suggesting—“

“I know. You promised Cid you wouldn’t come anywhere near me.” You take another sip of your jet juice, wincing at the burn but glad for the boldness it affords you. You’d never have been brave enough to say the next thing without it. “But what if I wanted you to?”

He doesn’t say anything, but he does finally look at you properly, full in the face. You feel a little buzzed; and you shift your thighs unconsciously as you wait. He has a beautiful neck, you think, feeling deranged. You want to suck at it. The thought throbs right down between your legs, and he takes in a sharp, deep breath, his dark eyes still fixed to yours.

“You…” he begins slowly, voice gruff, “can have anything you want. You just have to ask.”

Your breath catches. Your heart is drumming now, loud in your ears, and the fluttering in your stomach has sharpened into something markedly more rhythmic, in time with your pulse. You press your legs together around the feeling. “Then I would like you to kiss me.” You didn’t mean to whisper it, but the air between you suddenly seems thicker; as though the sounds are muffled.

Hunter straightens. “Where?” At first you think you’ve misheard his rough response. Then it lands, and you feel your skin exploding into flames.

Wordless, almost dazedly, you touch your fingertip to your own lips. He braces a hand on the bar at either side of your body, leaning in and crowding you back. And then his lips are on yours. It’s not a hard kiss; if anything, it’s much gentler than you would have expected from him, almost hesitant. He sucks in another slow, deep breath through his nose as he carefully coaxes your lips apart, the sharpness of the jet juice mixing with the warm taste of him.

Pressed against the length of you like this, you can feel every part of his body through the thin fabric of your dress. The firmness of his chest, the expanding and contracting of his stomach muscles as he breathes into the kiss. But you can feel something else too, hard and insistent against your hip, and you roll yourself closer. He groans, and it’s encouragement enough to have you palming his erection through his body glove, earning you a full-body shudder.

You want to feel it again, you decide, and more, and closer. You want to see him and feel him without the obstructing clothes. So you pull back slightly, sliding sideways along the length of the bar and tugging him along with you. He follows with his kiss, never breaking the contact, expression furrowed into keen, pained concentration.

You stumble backward, nearly overturning one of the lifeless dejarik tables as you fumble for the doorframe, trying not to walk into it. Your tiny room is behind Cid’s office; it’s dingy, and there’s just a cot and a ‘fresher, but she’s never asked for rent, so you’ve never complained.

Backing up until your legs hit the edge of the bed, you sit down clumsily, finally breaking the kiss.

He breathes hard through his nose, seeming to shiver as he gazes down at you, standing between your spread knees. Emboldened by the obvious bulge of his erection, you raise a hand to your breast, touching the softness of your own skin with a demonstrative fingertip as before, showing him where. He leans down over you, and you let yourself fall backward, laying flat. He’s a shadow in the dark as he palms your breast over your dress, and you arch your back up into his touch.

He lowers his head, mouthing at you. Your nipples ache under your dress, but his hot mouth is rapidly dampening the fabric, and you reach down to seize a handful of his hair, bringing his face closer to your chest. He lowers his body until he’s laying across the bed, his hands propped beside your arms. He’s groaning down into the front of your dress, not yet even at your bare skin, and warmth rolls up your neck. It’s incredibly heady; his desire for you palpable.

Shifting under his weight, you prop yourself onto your elbows as he lifts his face to look up at you. Thick black eyelashes frame his watchful eyes, oddly pretty in an otherwise rugged face. Slowly, giving him time to follow your movements, you reach for the bandana around his forehead and pull it away, dropping it beside your bed. His hair curtains around his face without it, and you run a hand back through his loosened hair. There’s a narrow scar at his temple, still a fresh, darkened red colour, not yet faded pale. His eyes drift shut at the feeling of your fingertips against his scalp, and he seems to tense.

Fuck, he’s so sensitive, you think, as he draws in another shuddering breath. You can see the muscles across the tops of his shoulders flexing with every gentle touch of your fingers, and restless, you shift your thighs under his.

“Hunter?” you breathe, waiting as he manages to drag his eyes open again. Holding his gaze, you bring your hand down between your bodies. His breathing catches as he watches your hand slide against your breast, down to your stomach, and lower. When you rest your fingertip just above your public mound, his eyes dart back to your face.

“You want… fuck cyar’ika, you’d let me…?” His normally-low voice is ragged, deep and effortful.

You nod, suddenly shy again as he shifts lower, his face inches from the apex of your thighs. “What does that mean? Cyar’ika?”

He rucks the hem of your dress up around your waist and seems to pause at the sight of your underwear covering your pussy. You wonder if he can tell how worked up you are… if your arousal has dampened the fabric. You shift your thighs, waiting, but he doesn’t remove them. Instead, he brings his face down, pressing his nose into the fabric directly over your clit and inhaling deeply.

Your face burns even as hot desire unfurls wide in your stomach, making your cunt ache. It’s the most intimate thing you’ve ever experienced. One of his hands braced at your lower stomach, pinning you still as he breathes slowly, in and out. You can only see slivers of his face through his hair, but his expression is rapturous. It reminds you of the way wealthy bar patrons look as they examine a glass of expensive toniray before drinking it; appreciating the bouquet.

After an interminable length buried there, he finally lifts his face to look up at you. “Sweetheart,” he husks, voice strained. “It means sweetheart.”

It’s so… tender, and you shyly raise a trembling hand to your own face as you gaze down at him.

“Oh,” is all you can produce in the way of response. He’s already lowering his head for more, but this time your whole body jolts at the feeling of his lips pressing at the thin fabric. Kissing at your covered cunt, a blunt-nailed hand snakes up the side of your thigh, holding the skirt of your dress up. You shift your hips up, feeling oversensitive and needy, and he responds by pressing his hot tongue to the exact spot covering your clit.

You collapse flat onto your back, both hands over your face as he continues breathing ragged against you, the dully abrading scrape of stubble between your thighs, his tongue and your cunt working together to soak the flimsy scrap of material. The friction is perfect; the pressure precisely accurate at your clit, and you realise with a hot wave of astonished bewilderment that he’s going to make you cum in your panties. There’s a harsh, gritty exhale and you peer between your fingers to see that he’s rutting mindlessly at the bed beneath him, his hips shifting, searching for his own friction. There’s something powerfully sexy about this; the fact that even through the fabric, the taste of your cunt is enough to have him mindlessly thrusting at nothing.

His tongue presses harder, flicking right over the most sensitive part of your clit; slightly upward and to the side, and you gasp as he matches the movement again, and again, until your hips are lifting, writhing off the bed. He pins you down with the entire side of his arm, his weight bracing as he keeps his mouth’s movements precise and all too fast you can feel your legs shaking, muscles seizing.

“I’m… you’re going to make me…” you whimper, unable to form the words but uncaring as your release cracks right down from your chest, keen to the point between your thighs. You can’t even thrash with the force of your orgasm, his arm still holding you perfectly still. Somehow this only prolongs the waves of pleasure, unable to writhe away, forced helplessly to stay still as liquid heat floods the lower half of your body, his tongue unrelenting. You don’t know how long it takes, only that eventually your legs have melted into stillness, the trembling subsided.

He’s still mouthing at you, and you look down as there’s a rasping, wet-bubbling sound. Your face bursts into flame anew when you realise what he’s doing. He’s… sucking the wetness from your panties; greedily wringing the soaked fabric between his teeth to wrench every last drop of you into his mouth. When he’s finally done, you return your fingers to his hair, murmuring his name until he’s looking up at you.

“Do you want me to…?” You suck your lower lip into your mouth, letting your gaze run down the length of his body.

“I’m… no, cyar’ika. I’m alright.” He looks gruffly apologetic as he shifts his weight up onto his elbows, and you realise that the front of his body glove has a wide circle of wetness, darker than the surrounding material.

The understanding makes you blink at him, wordless. You’re overwhelmed with a feeling of… pride. This gruff, shadowy, tattooed man, scaring everyone in Cid’s bar away, cumming untouched because of you, simply overwhelmed by the taste of your cunt. You’ve never felt more desirable in your life. You’re only disappointed that you won’t get to taste him.

But — wait, that’s not true. His own recent ministrations have inspired you. There’s no reason you can’t see exactly what the appeal for him had been, and you’re filled with the urge to try it for yourself: kissing at the still-sensitive head of his cock through the wetness of his release. You ease yourself up into a seated position, smiling at him. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. Lay back for me.”

The surprise in his face makes you wonder if nobody has ever offered to take care of him this way before. It makes you sad, even as he shifts to comply. Nobody? you think. It seems terribly unfair. But, you rationalise to yourself, better late than never.

You’ll do your best to make it up to him.

Taglist:

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Beautiful 

The protectors of Ryloth…

Pose references from PhelanDavion, here and here.

He can't be a king without a T Pose.

And he nails that T Pose.