touch (scintillas)
He cannot breathe; he does not care. Motion overtakes his senses, for he has a purpose; sliding, eyes closed, fingers winding into his hair and holding him there whilst breathy pants and moans and gasps echo in his ears. He sings, hums, uses that low timbre that is so commanding to others to whisper and moan and worship with heat filling his mouth, suffocating his throat perfectly, connecting everything together, sending vibrations from his core up into another's. He wants to smile as the gruff voice from above grows weak, limp, soft, keening and breathy in its want, but he does not, merely looking up through half-lidded emerald and long brown lashes that are pricking involuntarily with rough tears, for he has not done this in years, nor has he wanted to during that time; but now, it is all he can focus upon. What is life, if not this heat?
He pulls back, gasping for air when it grows to be too much, jaw slack and saliva dripping from bruised lips. There is a guilt in crimson eyes as want turns into concern, but he does not allow it for a second, merely dragging one head in for a kiss against his bruised lips before replacing it with another, tongue entering were it should not, eliciting writhing moans and gasps and clawed sheets before he swallows again. And again. And again. His nose itches vaguely against coarse curls. He smiles at the feeling. His smile constricts everything, and fingers find his hair and scratch his scalp and tug and twist, and he wonders how long he has survived without them there for that is where they belong, and he does not breathe, and he does not care.
His heart is full.
Soon, his stomach is, too.
And he swallows around it all, for he has been waiting to hear the roar that rips from a tense, tight abdomen like a bestial cry for far too long, and it is every bit of beauty that he has been dreaming of for so long, ever since he heard a slight hitch in a low voice after the rains fell upon Solitas.
Finally, his lips trail upwards, seeking the flushed, relaxed face panting above him, finding crimson eyes replaced with whites of pleasure, a mouth opened and gasping for air, pink tongue pressed against front teeth. He grins, waiting for whites to disappear and red to return before opening his own mouth, showing proudly that unlike some people, he is a clean eater; and red grows darker, eyes wider, as he wipes saliva off his chin and waits for another command, for he deserves a break from his role as a superior officer and he shall reap the rewards of his patience happily.
And the reward, he finds, is the softest touch he has ever felt upon his skin- tracing up his cheek, a calloused thumb resting underneath his eye, wiping away stinging tears before they can fall. It is the limp, almost pathetic attempt at strength as boneless arms drag him upwards so that they collapse atop one another, hot pants and gasps still aching as they brush his ear. It is the teary smile, the baffled wonderment, as that hoarse voice breathes words of praise and longing into his hair.
And as they lie there, fingers other than his own begin to fumble with his belt, and Clover finally allows himself to breathe for a moment, waiting for his breath to be taken away again.