Fuck.
He sees it coming. That flash of red that sneaks out unexpectedly from behind the yellow of the overhead light, which blurs as it's followed by a stripe of white. He's strong and fast, but she's faster. It shouldn't have happened this way; she's the type of person who - on a normal day - should have gone down from sheer exhaustion, if not from her relative inexperience. He could have easily ended things with a sidewinder, or taken her out with a simple liver punch.
He loves it all: the thrill of the chase, the scent of their fear, and the high as the leather cradling his fist slides against a body slick with sweat and blood even as the flesh and bone caves underneath. But despite his years of brutal fighting, he is his mother's son, and he occasionally convinces himself that it means something.
So he does what he considers to be the chivalrous thing - perhaps sportsmanlike is a better term, for an activity which usually ends with his opponents punch-drunk a decade down the road - and decides to let her defeat herself in her own game.
It's not to say that he doesn't enjoy a good brawl. Looking at him - six foot, three inches of solid muscle, his body honed through diet and training and the sheer force of will to take on a barrage of hits to his arms, his chest, his flanks - it's easy to see why. If there is truth to the passage that 'Your body is a Temple,' then it's to no one's surprise that Ben Solo has had plenty of worshipers of his unholy flesh.
He pivots and shifts, the soles of his shoes shifting against that canvas cover with the perfect amount of slide and grip. As his quads and hamstrings adjust their push and pull to allow just the right amount of flexion and tension in his knees, he knows that he has an advantage in even this. He's made his mark in the sport, and in addition to the nickname it's garnered (Knight of Ren wouldn't have been his first choice, but it is a fitting tribute to the old gym where he used to train with Snoke), he's come out with some endorsements which, while not incredibly lucrative, have left him conveniently swathed in a shitload of gear.
He had taken one look at her beat up trainers and that baggy tank stained a tea-brown from all her sweat and told her 'No'. It was the same thing he repeated when he stood over her, a solid mass of sheer power measuring at least half a foot and seventy pounds extra over her lithe frame. It was only when she began shouting expletives along with the taunts of the other boxers for mocking her request to fight, that he gives into his pride and says 'Yes.'
Although his ego takes a hit, his chivalry remains intact. So leaves his headgear in his bag, determined to let her go the distance before he puts an end to the charade with a quick jab that will do its job in knocking her to the mat.
Except that's not the way it goes.
He's reluctantly impressed; she is extremely fast on her feet, which allows her to move deceptively as she attacks and retreats. She's instinctive in the way that she keeps her spine straight as she pivots, getting in a punch before she tilts and slips away, propelled by instinct and muscle memory. He moves too, relying on thought and flow as he toys with her inexperience - he needs to have some fun, after all - and deriving pleasure in her frustration as his body keeps taking in her pitty-pat punches while he doesn't so as much flinch.
She was supposed to be a tomato can, yet it all comes down to this: Near the end of the third round, as his mind debates the way he can (gently) take her down, he loses his concentration. Perhaps it's the roar of the bystanders, or the tinny sound of the sparking lights, or the fact that he's only had half a protein shake for lunch, but it's more likely some combination of his hubris and her conviction which allows what happens next. The red of her glove flies towards him, bypassing his block. She catches him in a one-two punch that snaps with a devastating uppercut to his chin, followed by the sound of something splitting along his cheek.
There is a growing thud-thud-thud which roars in his ears as the ropes waver and his eyes play tricks with the lights. The smell of something sharp and acrid fills his flaring nostrils as liquid trickles into the corner of his mouth. He can't taste it properly because of the mouthguard which sits between his rattled teeth, but it feels like his blood, or saliva, or some combination of both.
He fights to keep his eyes open, focusing on the dark paint which covers the concrete walls, the muffled sounds as heavy bags meet furious fists, and the whizzing of ropes as they fly beneath dancing feet. His legs lose the battle first-wavering then collapsing jelly-like onto the ground. He's down and spinning, the years of sweat and dirt rubbed against his face. There's a surprisingly concerned voice in the background calling his name, and he hears those old, dirty-assed trainers squeaking two feet from him as the victor rolls triumphantly back and forth on her feet.
The light swirls and constricts. He thinks he hears the words "That's for Finn, you motherfucker-" before it all goes black .
.~O~.
The wooden bench feels unyielding against Ben's sore muscles. He hears something soft, something rhythmic- he thinks it may be the sounds of a leather sole as it whispers against the canvas. But it's not. It can't be; he feels out of sorts, confused, but he's sitting, and there aren't all the noises and echoes that ricochet off the concrete walls of the gym. This feels different. More intimate.
He tries to focus, and this time he hears the second hand of the wall clock as it steadily clicks. There's that whispering sound again, but as his eyes finally open, he discovers finds a pair of startling green eyes peering up at him from beneath a fall of copper hair.
Ben could go twelve rounds against Tyson in his prime, and he would still know those eyes anywhere.
There is that whisper of a sound again as Hux inhales deeply through his nose, which changes into something more melodic as he lets out an exhale in relief.
Ben flinches as Hux shines something into his eyes. The quick movement leaves him a bit dizzied as the walls sway.
"Woah, careful," Hux said, his voice gentle but firm. "You know I have to check you out."
Ben knows, but he doesn't know everything it entails. The last time he was knocked down was when he was fifteen and just starting out.
"How long was I out for?"
"Fifteen seconds." Hux asks Ben to move his eyes in different directions and seems satisfied with the results. He places the penlight in his pocket and starts peppering Ben with questions.
"Tell me your name."
"Ben Solo." Ben can't help rolling his eyes.
"Where are you?"
"First Order Sports. Your office."
"What year is it?"
"2017. And before you ask, June 13." Ben glances at the black and white clock that sits on the wall. "4:10 in the afternoon."
"President of the United States?"
Ben glares, clamping his mouth shut.
Hux huffs out a laugh. "Fine. What's the last thing you remember before coming to?"
Fuck. A wave of nausea hits Ben, along with humiliating memory of her clocking him on the chin. Given the size of the rest of his body, Ben would have given anything for a granite jaw, but genetics blessed him with a soft and sloping one instead. He had always depended on the speed of his legs and his ability to suss out his opponents to win his matches in the heavier weight classes.
"Shit. I can't believe she got me with a fucking bolo punch."
Hux nodded. "Turns out she trains at the same gym as Finn."
Ben turns the name over in his mind several times. It's familiar, but why it should be eludes him at first.
He looks up. The fighter who fell through the ropes several weeks ago after Ben charged him with a bum rush.
"Yeah," Hux says upon seeing Ben's realization. Thankfully, he doesn't pursue it further. "You've got a pretty bad gash on your cheek. I have to stitch it up - not too many, maybe four or five. I don't want to give you any narcotics because of your concussion, but I can give you local, if you want."
"No, don't want that shit." Ben doesn't want it, or need it. His years of training and a lifetime of name calling have taught him to deal with pain, especially when it came to matters regarding his face. He lays back as Hux begins cleaning the wound, the sting of the antiseptic replaced by the prick of the surgical needle piercing his skin.
He breathes, feeling the pull of the fast gut drawing the ragged edges of flesh closed as Hux's fingers flew. It never fails to surprise him that Hux would choose to slum away several days a week fixing up amateur boxers in a fight factory. It's nearly as surprising as the idea that someone as beautiful and talented as Hux could be interested in someone like Ben.
Ben would never forget the first time they met. Both were thirteen; Ben's parents had enrolled him in the youth program so Ben could learn "the importance of work ethic and discipline," while Hux senior wanted to "toughen" Hux up. Hux stood out immediately, with his pale skin, gangly limbs, and soft Irish brogue. He looked like an easy target, but stunned more than a number of his opponents with his whip-like smarts, wiry strength and surprising speed. Feeling a kinship with the other misfit, Ben took him under his wing. But whereas Ben grew tall and broad, Hux grew - tall. It was the rapid growth spurt that outstripped the development of Hux's muscle mass which eventually derailed his father's hopes.
Ben moved up the weight classes, collecting more and more wins under his belt. He never gave much thought to the skinny teen until Hux re-entered his world twelve years later with a bang.
"They hired some new hot shot doctor. All competitive fighters have to report for a new physical," Phasma had said.
Ben had left his smelly, sweat-soaked clothing on, a bit peeved to interrupt his practice for the inconvenience. One look at Hux's debonair exterior and hearing the way in which Hux's "Hi, Ben" fell from his tongue was all that it took.
He found himself booking more and more appointments during Hux's days at First Order. For the most mundane injuries - sores and sprains that he normally would have no problem taking care of himself. He's not sure if it was the excessive number of hands-on physicals, or his not-so-subtle flirtations, or just a matter of pure attrition that finally leads Hux to ask Ben out.
Hux's voice broke through Ben's rambling thoughts. "All done. I want to see how steady you are on your feet. Then we'll look over everything else and get you iced down."
Ben stood, walking the length of the room.
Hux gestured for him to turn. "Again. This time, put one foot in front of the other, in a straight line."
Ben did as he was told, pleased to discover that he only needed to right himself once. "See?" he said. "No problem." He glanced at Hux, before catching his reflection in the mirror which hangs just beyond Hux's head.
His cocky grin slides off, transforming into a dismayed "O."
His face is swollen and bruised. Ben doesn't think he's an overly vain man, but there's no question that he's sensitive about his looks. His body is the stuff of Greek legends and modern day uploads, but whereas his physique has always been his calling card - the "Main Event," so to speak - his face has been the equivalent of the Walkout Bout.
He's been told that his features are "interesting" and "give him character" by people who like him, and "ugly" by those who don't. Looking at himself objectively through the mirror's dusty, blotchy surface, he catalogues everything methodically: eyes which are a bit too narrowed; ears that are large and widely set; a nose too long and not quite straight; and his soft and narrow chin. And his lips - full, pouty, feminine. Lips which earned more than his fair share of fucked up blow job comments growing up.
Even he has to admit that the last one turned out to be quite prescient.
And now there's an unseemly gash across his right cheek. Although he has faith in Hux's skills, he's certain that the unevenness of the wound will leave a scar. Ben feels the tears welling up inside. He doesn't need more "character," another mark on his skin to go along with his paint splattered moles.
"Ben? That was good. Sit down and let me finish checking you out. I want to get your muscles iced before the inflammation sets in."
Ben sits down slowly. Hux's long fingers press along the sides of his ribs, checking for any pain. They make their way down his flank, skimming across the ridges of his abdomen, and linger for a second longer than necessary near his groin.
Ben feels his cock swell, filling the front of his shorts. He looks up; Hux's eyes have widened, his breath hitching as he stares at Ben's hardening prick.
It may be a mix of the adrenaline and the endorphins, but Ben needs. He needs to feel desired, to know that Hux still finds him desirable. His body has never been in better shape and - like he always has - he uses it to get what he wants.
"Want you, Hux," he says breathily. He leans forward to showcase the well-muscled curves of his ass and contracts his abdominal muscles and his pecs, ignoring the flash of pain. He grabs Hux's wrist and presses it down onto the length of his cock and begins to grind.
"Fuck, Ben, what are you doing? You're concussed - you're in no shape for physical activity, of any sort!"
Ben stares at Hux. At that perfectly straight nose, those delicate cheekbones, and those lush lips. At the fall of hair which glows warmly in the incandescent light, and the long, pale lashes which frame a pair of dilated, viridescent eyes.
Perhaps Ben's sustained more frontal lobe damage than he thought. Because as he continues to stare at Hux - at Hux's elegant and ridiculously handsome face - he promptly breaks down and cries.
Ben's body is his temple. It's what he has - what he's always had - to offer. If he can't tempt Hux with it now, what does he have left to give in another ten years when things have started to go soft?
Certainly not his face. Especially now that it's marred - well, even more so.
He feels Hux's concern as the redhead kneels down in front of him. There's a soft rustling as Hux's pale fingers brush Ben's ebony locks off his sticky skin.
"What's wrong, love?" The endearment causes Ben to wince. "Are you in pain?" Hux hesitates. "I'll give you a shot of toradol, if you want."
"No," Ben says, fighting the urge to sob. "It's my fucking face."
Hux looks over the wound and frowns. "The stitches will be ready to come out in a week. It was a clean wound; with your skin, I don't think it will leave much of a scar."
"Doesn't matter anyway," Ben says dully. "At this point, what's another strike against this ugly mug?"
"Ugly mug? What's wrong with your face?" Hux asked, genuinely confused. At Ben's mocking look, he added "Seriously? Why do you think I asked you out?"
"Couldn't resist the gun show?" Ben asked, arching a brow. He couldn't help preening as he lifted his arms up and posed, showcasing the biceps which rippled thickly under his skin.
Hux laughed. "I work part time at a gym. I see plenty of half-naked, sweaty hard bodies around me all the time. Not that I'm not extremely appreciative of yours."
"Well, then, perhaps it's because of this." Ben canted his hips forward, brushing his dick against Hux's hand.
Hux trailed a finger delicately along it's length. It had softened somewhat after Ben's maudlin outburst, but it still managed a valiant twitch.
"Again, it's not that I'm not extremely appreciative of your obvious assets. But despite the fact that I'm an absolute slut for your ridiculously impressive cock, that's not the reason why."
Hux's face softened at Ben's questioning look. "I asked you out because you were the friend who watched my back when I was nothing but a skinny, snarky git. I asked you out because you're breathtaking when you fight, laying everything you have out there, heart and soul. Okay, so maybe I asked you out because your whole body - not to mention those goddamn arms - are the stuff of dreams." Hux hesitated. "But the biggest reason I asked you out was because of your face."
"My face," Ben echoed flatly. "Now I know you're putting me on."
"Your face," Hux said emphatically. "It's what I thought about all those years that I was away. What I memorized at night. What I hadn't been able to find, on anyone else. It's the reason why I continue to work two days a week at this godforsaken place. Your perfectly imperfect, stunning face."
Ben stared, open mouthed. He let out a soft sound of surprise as he felt Hux's fingers trace the contours of his visage lovingly, as if it were the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"My eyes.." Ben said weakly.
"I love the way they soften from a chocolate brown to gold in the light."
"My ears..."
"Mmmmm. So sensitive," Hux said, punctuating his words with a gentle nip as Ben let out a moan.
"My nose..."
"So strong and masculine. It may also be my second favorite thing of yours to feel grinding up against my ass."
"My mouth..."
"Seriously?" Hux's brows lifted under the sweep of his hair. "If you don't know how much it turns me on to see those incredible lips wrapped around my prick, you were hit harder than I thought."
Ben was unseemingly quiet.
"My chin..." The bane of his existence, both aesthetically, and as a fighter.
Hux's eyes were so intent, they were nearly a bottle-green.
"It's perfect to do this." He grasped Ben's chin in his hand, the shape of it fitting perfectly into his palm as he tilted it up and placed a slow, gentle kiss against Ben's lips.
Ben let out a breathy sigh. He pressed his body towards Hux, tingling in anticipation as Hux's tongue slipped in and licked along the inside of his mouth with the sweet promise of something more.
"When you're feeling better, I'm going to show you just how much I adore every inch of you," Hux promised. "Every single, perfect bit. Now let me ice you down - the only marks I want to see on you are the ones I make."
Ben gave in reluctantly after one parting kiss. Despite the shock of the ice against his sore flesh, he couldn't hide his giddy grin.
Hux thought he was beautiful.
A joyous feeling rose up in him, because although his body may have been battered and bruised, he had never felt quite so whole.