multi-fandom oneshots

off to the races (armitage hux)

summary: Armitage Hux is one of many arms dealers for the First Order. Cool and collected, never a hair out of place. That is, of course, until Tall, Dark & Handsome by the bar tries a one-liner.

pairing: armitage hux x reader

genre: smut and a tiny bit of fluff, AU – intergalactic arms dealers (is that a thing??i'm makin it a thing)

word count: 3.7k

warnings: a LOT of roughness, um choking, kylo ren being jealous but hux being even MORE jealous (uno reverse card), very obvious dom/sub kinda thing, rich people spending a lot of money :/

note: um it should be no surprise that i am armitage hux trash. this is why they call me the w**** m**'* w****

"For good luck."

He holds an Argorian die – a clunky, large thing that takes up one whole of even his gigantic hands to hold. The rest of the crowded table cheer and chatter between themselves, bending forward to watch; bets placed and bets won and money, money, money.

You press your lips to the die, and those cold green eyes deepen into something much more volatile – something brought on by the alcohol, or the low, crooning music, or the money... Or maybe, the shade of red painted on your lips, the dress that seemed to be spun from threads of gold itself.

"Thank you, darling."

He throws the die blindly. His eyes should be on the rolling die that decides if he wins 70,000 credits or loses 10,000 – but he's much more interested in the spot where your shoulder and neck meets.

There should be purple there, he thinks. Red, purple, blue blotches that look like the supernovas you had travelled through just cycles ago. A sign of the fact that he had ravished you just a few hours before – dress bunched up against your waist and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A sign of the fact that you were his – though he doesn't think that there's anyone even here that's stupid enough to try and say otherwise.

You had covered those bruises up. He remembers laying back in bed, cigar to his lips and blankets rumpled as you sat and pressed powders to your skin. He had watched, an argument on the tip of his tongue, but then you had said something far too adorable – about the races, if he remembers correctly – and he'd been distracted.

He'll simply have to give you more tonight – and make sure you don't cover them up this time.

The crowd erupts into cheers. He's won more money. He smirks, but he doesn't care. He has enough credits as it is – but it's the high of winning that he likes about this place, the teetering between loss and victory that gets him riled up. He wins every time, of course. But it's the build up that matters.

"Another?" The non-human tending to the table croons, casting buggy green eyes around the table. It waves the die towards him, taking in the winnings he had already accumulated and the crowd that had come with it. "Another, sir?"

You see him consider it. But then–

"Armie," you say softly, resting your head on his shoulder with a pout. "C'mon, you promised."

And that does it, of course. The pout and the big eyes and the fluttering lashes – the soft, innocent voice and the way you hug his arm sweetly. He's always been a cold, hard man – blood and blasters and credits. But there's something about the pretty things that you know makes him weak at the knees – and you just happen to be the prettiest of all.

Armitage raises a single hand, and that's enough. The crowd that had been anticipating another match deflate – but they're quickly preoccupied with another trigger-happy rich man with money to burn. Armitage backs away from the table with you on his arm, nodding towards his winnings at a passing waiter. "Take care of that for me."