Hux hated Kylo Ren. He never met him. The man was notorious enough that he didn’t have to. He heard he was prone to throwing horrifying tantrums when a deal didn’t go his way, that his employees lived in mortal dread of him, and that, worse of all, he was supposedly the youngest CEO of First Order Corp, snatching the title from Hux.
Unlike Ren, he worked his ass off to be in his position. They said that all Ren did was cheating his uncle out of his inheritance and presenting himself to Chairman Snoke as the legendary Vader’s rightful heir. His grandfather left behind an empire. At the end of the day, Ren was a privileged prick with whom Hux was forced to compete for Snoke’s attention, but at least he was half a world away.
That is, until Snoke arranged for a personal meeting.
Hux saw no reason why Ren couldn’t drag his punk ass to London. That’s where the real First Order headquarters were; the corporation’s American branch was a tasteless joke at best. He arrived to New York, jet-lagged and miserable, with an FO party to attend and an early morning meeting with that wanker Ren.
He escaped to the balcony, the festivities still at full swing behind him. He was at his third cocktail and four hundredth bootlicker, and he really needed a break. The music was ghastly, some tasteless ‘60s medley, and it followed him to the secluded solitary of the tropical-themed box hanging a hundred stories above Central Park. There was a small pool there, abandoned, covered with a turquoise plastic sheet, an empty bar with a straw roof, and two tall vertical torches which actually seemed to be operating, the flames waving in the soft breeze.
Hux walked to the railing, glanced down, frowned in distaste, and searched his waistcoat for a pack of cigarettes. He treated himself to some duty free Lucky Strikes at the airport, and as he put the tag-end to his lips he realised he neglected to purchase a lighter. Maybe he could go to the torches, light it from them, die a heroic death in the attempt.
He heard the door open. He tried to look casual with his pathetically unlit cigarette, embarrassment burning his cheeks as he glanced at the swirling trees below, red and yellow and orange.
“May I?” his company asked, offering a costume-made zippo. He had outrageously huge hands and a voice with such a deep, rich timbre it made Hux’s stomach tremble. He glanced up, eyebrows knitted. He was so handsome it almost pained Hux to look at him.
“Thank you,” he managed, and leant over the lighter. He made sure to hollow his cheeks and flutter his lashes as he did that. Even the stranger’s shoes were splendid, brown Kentons, perfectly complimenting his grey suit and long wool coat. So many people got the shoes wrong.
“What brings you here?” Mr. Suit Porn asked, and Hux chanced a glance at his face, illuminated by the glowing flames. He looked like a million dollar masterpiece.
“Work,” Hux said with a small exhale, smoke curling up from his lips. It worked: Mr. Suit Porn looked at them. He was still staring when Hux added, “I can’t exactly travel for leisure.”
Mr. Suit Porn seemed to sober up from his trance, and he pocketed his zippo, noting:
“We can’t, can we? That’s the weirdest shit. With all the money we make. And we’re not uh, free to do that.” He frowned, like he disliked what he just said.
“Well,” Hux explained with a patronising air, “that’s capitalism for you.”
Mr. Suit Porn grinned. Fuck, his teeth. Hux was so tired of the perfect rows of white his fellow businessmen kept flashing at him. Keeping on his crooked smile, Mr. Suit Porn leant against the railing, hands in his pockets. Hux idly wondered whether he’ll fall to his death. He was a massive guy, and the railing didn’t look like it could support all that beef.
“Not a fan?” he asked, and Hux scowled.
“Of capitalism,” Mr. Suit Porn said, grin widening. Hux took a long drag of his cigarette, and exhaled through his nose as he tilted his head back, throat exposed. Mr. Suit Porn swallowed down, dry.
“I consider myself an imperialist communist,” Hux confessed, looking at him from behind heavy lashes.
“Isn’t that self-contradictory?” Mr. Suit Porn teased. Cocky. Hux liked cocky.
“Do I contradict myself?” he quoted. “Very well, then I contradict myself. I am large; I contain multitudes.”
Mr. Suit Porn shook his head, smiling to himself. “A communist working for a bigass corp like FO.”
“Multitudes,” Hux whispered, and Mr. Suit chuckled. He sounded like someone who was not accustomed to the sound of his own laughter. He shook that gorgeous head again, his shampoo-ad locks flying about.
“Can I take your complex personality to dinner?”
“Cut the crap.”
Mr. Suit Porn took it as a challenge. Something flashed in his gaze; something hungry an animal. “Can I take your delicious little ass home?” he asked, smiling like he was half joking.
“Depends.” Hux sucked on the cigarette, slowly, like he didn’t really give a shit. “What would you do with my scrumptious ass?” He snorted. “Eat it?”
“If that’s what you wanted,” Mr. Suit Porn said, dropping his voice impossibly lower.
“Gross,” Hux noted as his cock twitched.
“What would you like to do?”
“Suck your dick.”
Mr. Suit Porn looked at his lips around the cigarette, then back to his eyes again. His pupils were dark and fat.
“You’ve got quite the oral fixation, don’t you?” he growled. Hux considered whether it was worth the thrill getting dicked on a balcony in full view of all his colleagues and future associates. It was not a definite no, but a no nevertheless.
“I’d prefer my hotel room.”
“Good,” Mr. Suit Porn put his hand over Hux’s on the railing. He shuddered with anticipation. Mr. Suit Porn leant in, his breath hot against Hux’s ears: “I’ll give you just what you need. Gonna make you feel so good. Feed you my dick, have you drool over it. I’ll fuck your ass just how you want it to be fucked, and then I’ll fuck you some more, spend the whole night fucking you. Sounds good?”
“Fuck,” Hux breathed, and then, with more emphasis, “fuck, shit. I have an early meeting tomorrow. But maybe we could…”
“Me too,” Mr. Suit Porn said, pulling back. He touched his thumb to Hux’s chin, and made him tilt up his head. “But it’s not often guys like you throw themselves at me.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Hux snorted, levelling him with his gaze, wondering what he meant by guys like him. Fortunately, his brain operated quite quickly even when there was not much blood left in it. “Let’s do this like adults, how about that,” he proposed. “Give me your number, and I’ll give you a call after my meeting. It’d still count as a one night stand. No attachments. More time to do it properly.”
“Properly,” Mr. Suit Porn repeated, amused, and dropped his hand. He measured Hux. “It’s not some sorry ass attempt to escape my advances, yeah? Because if I stepped over-”
“If you don’t trust me enough not to fuck you over,” Hux interrupted, “then you shouldn’t put your cock in me or anywhere near my proximity. Believe me, if you want this, you’ll just want it even more tomorrow. Do we have a damn deal?”
Mr. Suit Porn laughed. This time, it was a proper laugh, and it made Hux’s chest tight. Mr. Suit Porn rubbed his neck, looking at Hux with head tilted. “Can I think of you tonight?”
“You whisper absolute filth into my ears and you can’t say jack off our loud? Give me your number before I change my mind, amateur.”
“Bossy.” Mr. Suit Porn handed him his phone, and Hux did the same. Their fingers brushed and it gave him bloody goosebumps. It was all the fault of that fucking suit. He mistyped his number twice, and set his name as Rule Britannia. Mr. Suit Porn went with the aubergine emoji. “So what happens next?” he asked. “Do we leave separately?”
“That’d be very considerate of you,” Hux agreed. He was already second-guessing his genius decision, but he had more alcohol in him than absolutely necessarily, he was lightheaded, sleepy and irritated, and he wanted nothing but a shower and at least four hours worth of sleep to prepare his shattered nerves to Kylo Ren. Riding his frustrations out on Mr. Suit Porn’s cock was a promising prospect for the future, one which would motivate him during the hellish meeting. Mr. Suit Porn stepped back, but Hux grabbed his tie, and gently tugged him back. “One more thing.”
He kissed him.
He entered Ren’s obnoxious skyscraper in high spirits. He was well-rested and energetic, and very, very proud of his self-discipline even after making out with Mr. Suit Porn for like twenty minutes, almost coming in his trousers, exchanging tasteful dick picks after he got back to his hotel, wishing each other goodnight and accidentally discussing their favourite movies and some rather sad childhood memories.
It still counted as a prolonged one-night stand, nothing else, a bit of foreplay before some bloody brilliant acts of deviance. He was ready to assassinate Ren with a ballpoint pen, and walk over his corpse to the arms of his beautiful stranger. His hair was mercilessly slicked back, only some strategically arranged locks escaping the wax, he sported his navy suit like it was fresh from the dry cleaner, and he was, fuck. Living the ultra life.
The glass doors of the melodramatically modern conference room slid open for him, and then he stopped dead in his tracks. Mr. Suit Porn was right there. He was wearing the suit from yesterday, which was cheating. He turned to Hux with a snarl of “finally,” but then his eyes widened in pleasant surprise, and he straightened up.
“Savile Row Ginger!” he exclaimed. “Hello, gorgeous. Whoa, stalking me much?” He pulled Hux into a hug before he could even blink. Mr. Suit Porn - Kylo Ren - gave really nice, warm bearhugs. What the fuck. Hux let out a noise which could’ve been described as a whimper, and Ren pulled back, getting hold of his shoulders. “What’s the matter? Hey, I’m not mad.” He rubbed Hux’s arms, and grinned, and then. Then. He noticed Hux’s nametag.
“I believe,” Hux forced out, “that we have a meeting.”
“You can’t be Armitage Fucking Hux,” Ren objected, and his grip tightened. “That man is a cunt.”
“I don’t recall having a middle name,” Hux noted, coolly, “or a cunt, for that matter.”
He tried to pull away - he had to take a seat, but Ren was holding onto him. “They call him the General,” he said, almost desperate. “They say he’s a maniac. A soulless workaholic with no human connections who thinks of his employees as mere pawns. Everybody hates him.”
“My team worships the ground I walk on!” Hux snapped, and Ren just muttered:
“You can’t be him.”
He stepped back. Hux crossed his arms over his chest, rubbing the spots where Ren’s hands were. He was crestfallen. “I hear you’re a manchild,” he said, and his voice was weaker than he would’ve liked. “That you damage the equipment and-”
“I just don’t tolerate mistakes,” Ren said. “That’s it. All of it. I swear. Fuck.”
They looked at each other. It was a long moment. Hux swallowed around a lump in his throat, and held out his hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ren.”
Ren looked down, and clasped his hand; he pulled it to his chest.
“The pleasure is mine,” he said, “Armitage.”