[just as distracted as he is now, as Baptiste's mouth presses to his jaw, his neck. trails down over heated skin and proceeds down past the pounding of his heart.
watching is more difficult than one might expect, but Olivine is a sensitive man in entirely too many ways. he makes an effort, mind, but there's a dizzy glaze to his expression when teeth brush flesh, chased by the heat of his mouth. the taste of sweet cream and salt mixes with the priest's milky scent, and fingers move to thread into blond locks to knead encouragingly.
he jolts bodily when deft fingers pull at his jewelry, a sharp exhale escaping him.]
Wait—
[he doesn't want him to wait. it's the last thing he wants, in fact, based on the way his fingers curl and his back arches, chasing that sensation with the desperation of a starving man. by some miracle, he's managed to free his other hand (that "miracle" may just be that it's been discarded, forgotten like the spoon still pressing into the outside of a thigh) enough to curl it around the chair, bracing his weight on it.
it's only in this moment that it occurs to him that they haven't even introduced themselves. his mind comes up empty for something to call the man, so instead he stammers something half-incomprehensible. possibly related to 'Oh, God," but the jury is out on that one.]
no subject
[just as distracted as he is now, as Baptiste's mouth presses to his jaw, his neck. trails down over heated skin and proceeds down past the pounding of his heart.
watching is more difficult than one might expect, but Olivine is a sensitive man in entirely too many ways. he makes an effort, mind, but there's a dizzy glaze to his expression when teeth brush flesh, chased by the heat of his mouth. the taste of sweet cream and salt mixes with the priest's milky scent, and fingers move to thread into blond locks to knead encouragingly.
he jolts bodily when deft fingers pull at his jewelry, a sharp exhale escaping him.]
Wait—
[he doesn't want him to wait. it's the last thing he wants, in fact, based on the way his fingers curl and his back arches, chasing that sensation with the desperation of a starving man. by some miracle, he's managed to free his other hand (that "miracle" may just be that it's been discarded, forgotten like the spoon still pressing into the outside of a thigh) enough to curl it around the chair, bracing his weight on it.
it's only in this moment that it occurs to him that they haven't even introduced themselves. his mind comes up empty for something to call the man, so instead he stammers something half-incomprehensible. possibly related to 'Oh, God," but the jury is out on that one.]