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The air in Miles’s dorm room was thick with the scent of cheap incense and the low hum of a vintage amp Hobie had insisted on “fixing” weeks ago. It still didn't work, but Miles didn't have the heart to move it. It was a piece of Hobie, a permanent fixture in his chaotic, carefully curated life.
Tonight, however, the amp was the least of his distractions.
Miles was standing in front of his full-length mirror, his back to the door. He was wearing a plaid skirt. It was a deep, rich burgundy, a thrift store find he’d been meaning to alter. The hem sat high on his thighs, the fabric soft and swishing with every slight movement. Underneath, he had on a simple black t-shirt and a pair of his usual sneakers. It was an experiment. A comfortable, private experiment.
He was just adjusting the waistband, trying to get the pleats to lay flat, when he heard the familiar click of the lock. He didn't need to turn around.
“‘Ey, Miles,” Hobie’s voice rumbled from the doorway, a low, gravelly thing that usually sent a pleasant shiver down Miles’ spine.
But then, nothing. The usual sound of his boots scuffing on the floor didn't follow. Just a heavy, charged silence.
Miles glanced over his shoulder. Hobie was frozen in the doorway. His usually sharp, assessing eyes were wide, his dark pupils blown out so much they nearly eclipsed the gold of his irises. His jaw was slack, his lips slightly parted. He looked like he’d been hit by a truck.
Miles’s heart hammered in his chest. “Hobie? You alright?”
Hobie didn’t answer. He took a step forward, then another, his movements slow and predatory. He was crowding into Miles’ space, his tall frame blocking the light from the hallway.
Miles swallowed, suddenly feeling very exposed. “I can explain. I was just… I saw it and I thought it might be cool, and it’s actually really comfortable, and—"
His words died in his throat. Hobie had dropped to his knees in front of him.
Before Miles could process the move, Hobie’s hands were on his thighs. His long, calloused fingers splayed across the bare skin just above the hem of his knee-high socks, then slid up, bunching the soft fabric of the skirt in his fists. He pressed his face against Miles’s legs, his forehead resting against his right thigh, his nose nuzzling the inside of his left.
A shaky, shuddering breath escaped Hobie. It was followed by a low, guttural groan that seemed to vibrate through Miles’s entire body.
“Hobie…” Miles whispered, his voice cracking. He could feel the heat of Hobie’s breath through the thin fabric of the skirt. He could feel the desperate, almost reverent pressure of Hobie’s hands gripping him. His own brain was short-circuiting. He was supposed to be explaining fashion choices, not watching his punk-rock anarchist boyfriend kneel before him like he was praying at an altar.
“Locked,” Hobie murmured against his skin, the word muffled. “I’m genuinely locked in ‘ere, Miles.”
He tilted his head back just enough to look up at him. His expression was a chaotic mix of desperation and adoration. His usual trademark cool was completely gone, replaced by a raw, consuming hunger.
“Fuckin’ magnificent,” Hobie breathed, his thumb tracing a maddeningly slow circle on the inside of Miles’s thigh, just barely brushing the edge of his boxers. “You can’t just… appearin’ like this. It’s not on.”
“I didn’t appear, I was just-Oh, God,” Miles gasped as Hobie’s mouth suddenly pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his skin, right where his thumb had just been.
The explanation was a lost cause. Any coherent thought Miles had left evaporated the moment Hobie’s teeth grazed his sensitive inner thigh. He heard a metallic jingle and looked down in dazed confusion.
Hobie, with one hand still clutching the skirt, had fumbled with his own belt buckle and the button of his jeans. The world narrowed to the feeling of Hobie’s hot mouth on his thigh, the rough calluses of his hands, and the desperate sound of his own breaths.
And then Hobie was looking up at him, that same desperate, wanting gaze, but this time it was a question.
Miles couldn’t speak. He could only nod, a short, jerky motion.
Hobie didn't need to be told twice. He surged upward, capturing Miles’s lips in a bruising, possessive kiss. It was all teeth and tongue and the taste of his own skin on Hobie’s lips. Their bodies met in a tangle of limbs, the skirt bunched around Miles's waist, the ridiculous, wonderful fabric the only barrier between them.
Hobie’s hands were everywhere, pulling at his shirt, gripping his hips, holding him like he was something precious he was terrified of losing.
“Should’ve known,” Hobie rasped against his ear, his voice a ragged whisper. “Should’ve known this was what I was missin’. Never seen anythin’ so fuckin’ beautiful.”
And then, without further preamble, he pushed Miles back onto the mess of his bed, following him down. The flimsy practicality of the skirt was completely forgotten. It was just another piece of clothing to be shoved aside, another obstacle in the way of Hobie getting exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted, right now, more than anything, was Miles.
The rest was a blur of frantic motions, whispered words that were mostly just moans in each other’s ears, and the glorious, overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly consumed by Hobie Brown. The skirt, a beautiful-irrelevant afterthought, was ruched up around Miles’s stomach.
Afterward, they lay in a tangled heap, both breathing heavily. Miles, his limbs feeling like jelly, looked down at Hobie who was still pressed against his side, his head resting on his shoulder. The sharp gold of his eyes was visible again, a look of sated, slightly dazed contentment on his face.
“So,” Miles started, his voice hoarse. “The skirt, I…”
Hobie chuckled, a low, breathy sound. “Shut up,” he murmured, pressing a lazy kiss to Miles’s collarbone. “You can explain later. Right now, I’m still locked in.”
He shifted, getting comfortable, and a small smile played on Miles’s lips. He supposed some explanations could wait. He had more important things to focus on, like the feeling of Hobie’s arms tightening around him, and the comforting, rhythmic beat of his heart that had finally, slowly, begun to calm down.