as a prompt: what if busy businessman Hux experiences the woes of a booking error on his flight and instead of flying business class as expected, he has to fly coach and is seated next to Kylo, who has already spread out over both seats. (if they get handsy under the provided “blankets” I would not be unhappy about it)

theweddingofthefoxes:

(Oh my god this is such a cute prompt, I love this.)

“That’s absolutely impossible,” Hux tells the gate agent. “My company always flies me business class. Always.”

The gate agent was a battle-axe, a survivor of years and years in the industry, utterly unbreakable and unflappable, even in the face of Hux’s barely-contained fury. She had the coolest, most unconcerned expression on her face as she said, “You’ll have to take that up with your company, sir. It is not the fault of the airline that someone else bought a ticket that you do not like.”

“But business class is boarding–”

“I understand that sir, but you are not in business class for this flight.” She looked at him with something that might have been kindness and might have been contempt. “I assure you that if in that time, anything terrible happens to you, we will be happy to address it.”

Hux had plenty more fight in him, but he could tell that this woman would simply not budge, and if he spent too much more time attempting it, he’d miss this flight and fuck his entire trip’s schedule up. Part of him was tempted, just to see if he could wrangle business class on the next flight, but another part of him knew that it was impossible. He had a presentation to give first thing the next morning and if he missed it, his job was on the line. With a sigh, he pushed back a strand of hair that had come loose in his anger and resigned himself to the line, gritting his teeth as two kids in front of him fought, fists flying, over whose turn it was to play the Nintendo DS. Watch me get seated right next to these brats, he thought.

Well, he wasn’t. Just right ahead of them. Perfect for them to kick my seat. He was looking so longingly at the business-class seats that he was passing that he nearly walked right past seat seat 20A. Also–it was already occupied. The guy in it was tall and broad, with one of those stupid man-buns, dressed in jeans and the kind of faded green jacket that looked vintage but was probably from Target for $20. One leg was sprawled across the aisle seat.

“You’re in my seat,” Hux said. 

“Hm?” The guy took off his headphones. “Oh, you’re 20A?”

“Yes, I’m 20A,” Hux said, hating himself for saying it because he really did not belong in 20A but that was his seat and now suddenly he was defensive of it. “Can you–?”

“Do you mind letting me have the window? The drink cart always whacks my knees when it goes past if I sit in the aisle.”

Hux forced himself to imagine how fast he’d be fired if the people on this plane started live-tweeting the breakdown he could feel coming on and it went viral and found its way to his boss. “That’s fine,” he hissed, certain he looked like a man on the brink of murder, and sat himself in the aisle seat. 

“You’re a peach, you know that?”

A peach? Hux frowned. 

“I’ll share my food, to thank you. I bought a ton of shit at the little kiosk before takeoff.”

Hux wasn’t sure he wanted this guy’s food, but something else was alarming to him. “What about our meals?”

“Our meals? We’re not getting meals. Not unless you’re up there.” He pointed up at business class, where Hux belonged, goddamit. “We get pretzels though, and a cup of soda. And beer or wine if you pay extra. And blankets.”

Hux put his tray down so he could lie down on it in despair, but then the flight attendant came over and told him to put it back in its upright position because they were about to take off. 

When they reached their cruising altitude, Hux finally said, “Okay, you know what? I will take some of those snacks.”

The guy’s headphones were on so he tapped him sharply on the shoulder and then pointed down at his bag. “The snacks. You offered me snacks.”

“You talk like a fuckin’ CEO, you know that?” The guy laughed, his dark eyes sparkling. Hux hated that he was noticing how lovely they were, how liquid and dark-lashed.

“I’m up for vice-president of First Order industries, actually.” It was obnoxious, but he couldn’t help letting him know who he was. 

“No way,” the guy said, rummaging through his backpack. “What are you doing in coach?”

Hux gritted his teeth. “They usually put me in business, but they made a mistake. I couldn’t get the gate agent to fix it.”

This guy had the gall to laugh at him. “Life’s like that, huh? I kind of figured that you weren’t used to sitting back here, with the 99 percent. You didn’t even bring your own snacks.”

“Usually they’re provided.”

“You will get your pretzels, courtesy of the airline. But from me…” Hux could only stare at the bounty inside the backpack, like something out of a Tarantino briefcase, practically glowing. Candy bars, jerky, chips and crackers and cookies. 

“God, you’re a pantry.”

“I’m actually a professor, but thanks.”

“A professor? What do you teach?”

“Art history. I’m heading to the Rijksmuseum.”

“You look like you’re heading to a weed cafe.”

The guy laughed. “I mean. They’re not mutually exclusive now, are they? What about you? I assume probably not weed.”

“We’re hoping to buy out a Dutch company. I usually get sent to do the sales talk.”

They kept eating and talking for a very long time, their music and books and laptops forgotten for thirty minutes, then an hour, then two, as they told each other about their lives. This guy, whose name was Ren, had gotten hired at a university two years before and specialized in Baroque art, and was waiting to find out if a paper he’d written would be published. When the flight attendant came by with the cart (which whacked Hux in the knee instead) offering drinks, Hux bought them both wine.

“You didn’t have to–”

“I didn’t. You stuck me in this awful aisle seat.” But Hux felt himself smile for real. Until he and Ren started talking, he hadn’t smiled once since he’d left for the airport earlier that day. Ren helped himself to a Fig Newton and put on an affected voice.

“Yes, this vintage really brings out the fig flavor. A fine year.”

“I’ll take it back.”

“She’s not going to take it back.”

“No, I’m going to take it back. And drink it myself.”

The wine was the perfect way to settle in for the night, even in these awful uncomfortable coach seats, as they kept talking and joking and teasing one another, finishing off the candy bars. The lights dimmed and Hux felt warm and pleasant under the little blanket provided, not exhausted but just sleepy, and felt even better when he felt Ren’s head slowly drift down to his shoulder. Even better than that when Ren’s hand settled on his thigh.

Everything was quiet.

“Whatever you’re thinking about doing,” Hux whispered in his very quietest voice. “I think you should do it.”

Ren snorted against him. “That’s not business class behavior, now, is it?”

“I’m not in business class,” Hux whispered back, and in responses, he felt Ren’s fingers brush against his belly as he undid the button of his pants. 

“Don’t let anyone hear you,” Ren said. “Won’t that be a scandal?”

“Hush,” Hux said, grinning and grimacing in anticipation, already hard.”

In their hours of chatting, they had not discussed their sex lives whatsoever,  so Hux was not prepared for whatever jewel-thief, silent, effective handjob skill that he was almost positive Ren had not learned in any art history class. Who the fuck was this guy? Once more, Hux found himself straining to not make a scene, hoping that his little sharp inhales sounded like the sound of a sleeper and not of a man on the brink of coming for the first time in, God, he didn’t even know how long. 

“Did you like?” Ren whispered in his ear.

Did he like???

“What hotel are you staying at in Amsterdam?” Hux asked, already trying to figure out how to get to the bathroom to clean up as quick and quiet as possible before falling asleep for real next to this impossible stranger.