When Hobie misses Miles' lips because of the angle and kisses his jaw instead, Miles throws his head back and holds Hobie even closer.
"Shit," he says, as Hobie works his way down Miles' neck until he can't go any further because of the angle.
"Let me down," Hobie whispers into Miles' neck, and Miles drops his legs onto the floor. Hobie works his way along Miles' neck, experimenting with the location of his sloppy kisses until he finds a place that makes Miles' grip on his waist weaken.
"You're so good at this," Miles says, letting Hobie pull the collar of his hoodie and his shirt down to run his mouth along his collarbone.
"Shirts off?" Hobie asks, hands going downwards, and Miles helps him. Miles' hoodie is dropped to the left and his shirt to the right, and the sight of Miles' chest, broad and muscular, makes Hobie stop for a moment.
"Damn," he says, pressing a hand between Miles' pectorals, then shucks off his battle jacket and the shirt underneath so they're both shirtless, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Miles' hands wander along Hobie's ink-covered ribs, so much less protected by flesh and fat and muscle. All of Hobie's strength is stored in lean, knotty muscles earned from hard work and insufficient food. Miles' muscles have the smooth mass that comes from daily workouts and plenty of hydration with water that isn't trying to kill him. He's so pretty, Hobie could melt into a puddle right there on the floor if only the laws of physics allowed.
Hobie grabs one of Miles' arms and holds it out, kissing along the muscles of his inner arm, ending with a loud smooch at Miles' wrist. At some point, his lipstick must have been completely rubbed off, because Miles' arm remains unmarked by Hobie's mouth, smooth skin a uniformly gorgeous deep brown. No tattoos or piercings interrupt the surface, unlike Hobie's body which has become so accustomed to needles. Miles' arm would look prettier with a trail of black along it, but Hobie's still proud of the way the younger boy loosens in his grip, pressing his arm into Hobie's mouth.
"This feels unfair," Miles says. "You're doing so much and I'm just standing here, useless." The last hiss of Miles' words is cut off as Hobie returns to his mouth, grabbing Miles' head with both hands and pulling their bodies as close as possible.
Hobie kisses his way down Miles' body, the feel of Miles' muscles contracting under his touch sending a mess of warmth and libido through his body, and he can't even find it in himself to care that they're in a kitchen where anybody could walk in like Kamala did earlier.
When Hobie crouches to kiss Miles' lower stomach, lips brushing his happy trail and a hand on his thigh, getting closer to the bulge in his jeans, Miles places a firm hand on his head.
"I don't want to," he begins, and Hobie's upright in a flash, half a step backwards and about to bend to put his shirt back on.
"Don't worry about it," Hobie says. "We won't do anything you don't want to do."
"I don't want to stop," Miles says, grabbing Hobie's hands. "I just. It's stupid. I'm sorry."
"Hey," Hobie says. "If you're not enthusiastically on board, I want no part in it. Consent is punk, right?"
"It's stupid, but I kind of want my first time to be with Gwen," he mumbles, hand flying up to rub the back of his neck.
"It's not stupid," Hobie says, resting a hand on Miles' waist. "Your first time should be as special as you want it to be." And Hobie wouldn't be able to give it quite that special quality he thinks Miles is looking for. He and Gwen could deflower each other, or whatever sentimental way Miles is thinking about it. Even though Hobie would regard his first time with Miles as something special, he's a bit of a manwhore and the actions themselves would be far from new. It's a little bit silly, but completely fair. And Miles is still so young.
"It's not. I don't know. I want to, with you, eventually. Just not the first time."
"You don't have to explain yourself," Hobie says, pulling Miles into a hug. "But also, if you're worried about disappointing me, don't be. I've had some awful sex in my day. Both because of my partner and because sometimes I just suck at it."
"Thanks," Miles says, face buried in Hobie's still-shirtless chest. Damn, this kid is buff. Short as hell, but so buff. It's an adorable combination, honestly.
"Don't thank me for doing the bare minimum," Hobie says, kissing Miles on the top of his head.
Fuck.
The piercings on his bottom lip have gotten stuck in Miles' hair.
"What's wrong?" Miles asks, and Hobie gets the answer to whether or not Miles can feel his hair being tugged gently.
If he's very careful, he can answer out loud. "Stuck," Hobie says, and tenses up when he feels the stud in the middle of his tongue brush against Miles' curls. He doesn't want to damage Miles' beautiful, but dangerously unprotected, hair. Thankfully, that doesn't get stuck too.
"Hold still," Miles says, and reaches his hands up to gently comb through his hair, freeing it from Hobie's mouth.
"Thank god," Hobie says, when Miles is finally done.
"You wouldn't believe the shit people have put in my hair. Mostly by accident. Lip rings are easy to get out," Miles says, adjusting the angle at which he's leaning against Hobie so he's even shorter in comparison.
"Let's get our shirts back on," Hobie says. "We should cut the rest of the vegetables. The soup will be ready soon."
"Do we have to put our shirts back on?" Miles asks. "I like looking at you. And your tattoos."
"I have no idea the actual amount of skin cells which fall off every second," Hobie says, letting himself smile at the thought that Miles likes looking at him. "But I don't want any of them in my soup. We're putting our shirts back on."
"I guess," Miles says, and puts his t-shirt back on. His hoodie stays abandoned on the ground. It's clear that Hobie must never have seen Miles without his hoodie or Spider-Man costume on, because the way his muscles press against the cotton fabric of his shirt is really fucking hot. Sometimes clothing makes a person even sexier. Paradoxical, but true.
Hobie leaves his battle jacket off, but puts it on the counter with Miles' hoodie, which he picks up off the floor.
They cut the rest of the vegetables, joking and being silly young people on a date. Hobie slides the vegetables into the soup and adds the spices Miles brought.
"The fridge is finicky, so we need to get this served as soon as possible," Hobie says, stirring the pot one last time. "There's a ladle in the drawer beside the sink. Mind grabbing it?"
Miles opens a drawer beside the sink. A pile of cloth napkins expands to occupy twice the volume of the drawer.
"Don't worry about it, I'll get them when we're done. The ladle's in the other drawer. And get the spoons out while you're at it. Same drawer. Thanks." Hobie starts stacking bowls beside the stove. "Once you've got it, can you stick your head out of the kitchen and tell everyone the soup's done?"
Hobie dishes out the soup, stomach rumbling at the prospect of a good, hot meal. It's been too long, but then it's always too long between proper meals.
"Soup's done!" Miles yells, and a crowd of people appear from around the Spider-Base. They take full bowls and spoons with them. Some take multiple, balancing bowls on plates in pyramid formation.
"You want some?" Hobie asks Miles, not pausing.
"Yes please. I'm starving," Miles says, then blushes. "Sorry. Not starving. Hungry."
Hobie laughs. "When's the last time you ate?"
"Before I got here."
"That's adorable," he says, and doesn't mention that this is his first proper meal in days. He doesn't need to make Miles feel guilty for having food. Food is good. Miles starving wouldn't make Hobie's community any less hungry.
"Stop staring into each other's eyes and keep ladling," Riri says. When did she fet here? Usually, she gets someone to deliver her food to her workshop. "You're so cute together I could puke."
"Not in the soup, please," Hobie says, and ladles faster.
"It's getting late. I should get going," Miles slaps the counter on either side of his empty bowl. "But hey. We make good soup. I'll see you when I see you."
Hobie leans over and plants a kiss on Miles' cheek, lips warm from the soup he's still savouring. "Bye, love."
Miles takes his dishes to the sink and types his coordinates into his watch. Hobie's eyes don't stray from the way Miles' sleeves fall on his biceps the entire time. It's a beautiful sight. He has to hold his soup against the counter when the portal opens, so it doesn't spill. If only Riri could find a way to bypass the gravity problem.
Miles steps through the portal, smiling and waving, and as it winks shut Hobie realizes he left his hoodie on the kitchen counter. An excuse to come back. Or maybe it's genuine forgetfulness. Hobie's certainly forgotten an assortment of clothing in various places.
Hobie finishes his soup alone. Miles is right. They do make good soup.