Work Text:
Mikkel wipes his palms on the fabric at the front of his thighs, tugging it further down his legs self consciously. He can hear the TV in the living room as Oliver flips channels, and he takes a deep breath, glances at himself in the mirror one more time; he looks absolutely ridiculous, and he very nearly says fuck it to the whole thing.
But if there is one thing Mikkel isn’t, it’s a chicken, so he straightens his shoulders and marches his way out of the room.
“Mikke?” Oliver calls as Mikkel rounds the corner, still looking at the TV, “Are you okay? You took a long-”
And Mikkel catches it, the instant Oliver turns around on the couch, the way his eyes widen and the remote falls from his grip.
There’s a long (too long) beat of silence, where Oliver just stares, and Mikkel begins to wonder, begins to worry-
In the blink of an eye, Oliver is there, standing before him, reaching out with a shaking hand to brush fingers over the line of Mikkel’s cheek, follows the V of the fabric on Mikkel’s chest down to where the dress is hugging the curve of Mikkel’s thighs. Mikkel shudders, just slightly, and like a man possessed, Oliver is on him.
Mikkel feels the wall slam into his back as Oliver shoves him into the plaster, one of his hands curled around Mikkel’s bare shoulder and the other gripping his ass, fingers shoved under the glittery fabric.
The noise Mikkel makes would be embarrassing if it wasn’t muffled into Oliver’s mouth as the taller man kisses him, a brightness to his eyes that’s almost manic, his fingers moving everywhere on Mikkel’s body, wild in his intensity. He bites at Mikkel’s bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth, drags his palm across where Mikkel is already starting to get hard, and Mikkel can’t do anything but hold on.