If Dudley smelled like rank coffee, Desmond had never noticed before; he’d been too preoccupied before—now even—to worry about the other man smelling bad. If anything his sense of smell was likely biased towards worse things than Skybux. Things like gasoline, engine oil, grease from a deep fryer, and even burning rubber from the occasional accident. Hair too; nothing really smelled worse than burnt hair. Though, he was close enough now, his nose rubbing along skin, that all he could smell reminded him saltwater—human sweat. Dudley’s. Nothing coated in cologne or fake fragrances.
Briefly, he wondered about that smirk; Desmond like it better than the downward turn of the barista’s lips he saw from time to time. The thought was fleeting though, as the other man hissed—making him smirk in turn—and pressed his open mouth to Desmond’s. His eyes shut instinctively and he slanted his mouth against Dudley’s—deepening it with a sharp inhale through his nose. In the next moment he sighed, moaning softly when he felt fingers brushing through his hair, a hand sliding down his back. He was gasping and his grip tightened on Dudley’s bicep as he moved forward further; one leg slid to either side of the barista’s, in effect making it so Desmond’s groin was pressing into his thigh and vice-versa.
The new position made it impossible for Desmond to keep his hand between them. He felt a pang of disappointment over that new development, but quickly got over it in light of Dudley’s cock—stiff and thick—pressing hard against his jean-clad thigh.
“Fuck yes,” he agreed against soft lips, his now free hand moving to push his shirt out of the way again as Dudley’s grip tightened on his hair. Warm skin felt smooth under his palm, his fingers. Digits splayed like a fan, moving up along the other man’s ribs. When Dudley licked, seeking his mouth again, Desmond’s mind receded slightly into heady-haze territory; had he stopped kissing him? But he felt his mind fall entirely—into the gutter and blanketed in desire—when the Dudley’s fervor moved beyond gentle and he bit his lower lip. There were so many words in that kiss, in the way the barista sunk into Desmond as if he needed him, held him as if he were going to slip away entirely.
Another inhale; another moan; nails bit into bare skin involuntarily.
He stepped forward then, not entirely meaning to, and stumbled as he tried to get closer. Desmond, for all he was good at, was simply not made for standing on his toes for long periods. This occurred to him only after he began to fall forward and put more of his weight—far too quickly—onto Dudley.
Briefly, he wondered about that smirk; Desmond like it better than the downward turn of the barista’s lips he saw from time to time. The thought was fleeting though, as the other man hissed—making him smirk in turn—and pressed his open mouth to Desmond’s. His eyes shut instinctively and he slanted his mouth against Dudley’s—deepening it with a sharp inhale through his nose. In the next moment he sighed, moaning softly when he felt fingers brushing through his hair, a hand sliding down his back. He was gasping and his grip tightened on Dudley’s bicep as he moved forward further; one leg slid to either side of the barista’s, in effect making it so Desmond’s groin was pressing into his thigh and vice-versa.
The new position made it impossible for Desmond to keep his hand between them. He felt a pang of disappointment over that new development, but quickly got over it in light of Dudley’s cock—stiff and thick—pressing hard against his jean-clad thigh.
“Fuck yes,” he agreed against soft lips, his now free hand moving to push his shirt out of the way again as Dudley’s grip tightened on his hair. Warm skin felt smooth under his palm, his fingers. Digits splayed like a fan, moving up along the other man’s ribs. When Dudley licked, seeking his mouth again, Desmond’s mind receded slightly into heady-haze territory; had he stopped kissing him? But he felt his mind fall entirely—into the gutter and blanketed in desire—when the Dudley’s fervor moved beyond gentle and he bit his lower lip. There were so many words in that kiss, in the way the barista sunk into Desmond as if he needed him, held him as if he were going to slip away entirely.
Another inhale; another moan; nails bit into bare skin involuntarily.
He stepped forward then, not entirely meaning to, and stumbled as he tried to get closer. Desmond, for all he was good at, was simply not made for standing on his toes for long periods. This occurred to him only after he began to fall forward and put more of his weight—far too quickly—onto Dudley.
Sometimes I feel like a girl~... sometimes I don't~
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