touch (scintillas)
Clover vaguely wonders whether he should stick his head out of the window and allow himself to be buried underneath the blizzard. Perhaps that will cool the fire burning him from the inside out.
At the very least, it would blind him, sparing him of this unearthly image; but then, he would no longer be able to see the way his tanned fingers contrast so perfectly with dark hair, intertwined with locks he desperately tries to keep up and out of the way so that he can watch pale lips devour him wholly.
He shall suffer the heat, carve it into his bones. It is worth it. He is worth it.
This image will be carved into him forever; the touch, even more so. He is almost hesitant to pull, to ask for more, for this face which he has grown to adore in all its gaunt, weary, heartbroken imperfection is the dearest thing in the world to him, not for giving him the pleasure, the blessing, of subduing him in its warmth; but for the fact that this is Qrow and that Qrow is here and that Qrow wants him just as badly.
A swallow, and he groans; another, and his breath hitches, body shaking as he longs for release. He cannot yet, cannot allow himself, cannot give into momentary pleasure in favour of losing this picture, for he must treasure the way that dark brown curls streaked with dirty blonde- the only remnants of the hair colour with which he was born before the rest of his body gained more pigment- press up against a tall, straight nose, splotchy and flushed and slightly running with abandon as this feast continues. Clover has so much to give, and he will gladly provide as long as he is wanted.
Shivers race up his spine and he gasps as he feels a throat, too tight, too narrow, too hoarse, choke and cough against his flesh; immediately, he leans forward and gently pulls the man off, trembling as the air hits saliva-drenched skin, the heat generators in the room never able to warm up the chilly tundra air enough to prevent the tingles assaulting sensitive nerves from the cold. He ignores it all, pushing through in favour of cupping that weary, flushed face, wiping off tears and snot and saliva and gathering up the other in his arms, almost collapsing as he tastes himself upon that pink tongue he would happily consume for all his days. He moves slowly, however, allowing air to pass from his lungs into another's, allowing his gratitude and heat and affection to scream aloud in every touch, for he cannot describe the wonder he feels for the elder.
Qrow finally pulls away from him, long strings of saliva falling from wet lips. The ragged, growling voice which whispers, "Let me keep going," almost sends him over the edge, but he merely lets out a shuddering sigh as he nods and smiles, rueful and defeated, for he can never win, and he shall obey forever, holding that angled face in his hands.
And, as that body lowers back down, resting that tall nose against the base before lips drag back up to envelope Clover fully once more, Qrow nuzzles his cheeks against Clover's hands, red eyes peering up at him in a daze, too wide and so trusting that he finally crumbles and whimpers in want.
The motion is so achingly slow that he almost sobs, the intensity building to a peak so volatile he is upon the edge of combusting, a freefall waiting to happen. He pants, fighting back the urge to be rough, the desire to thrust upwards, to force himself in so deep that the space within shall be permanently carved into his shape; instead, he breathes in deep, letting out haggard sighs, whispering praise and adoration and keeping his fingers gentle and his touch present for he knows that all Qrow has ever wanted is to be held and enveloped so fully that he can finally internalize that he is no longer alone. Then, he curls forward, everything clenching tight as he nears the end, unable to cling onto this desperate, wanton warmth any longer.
"…May I?" he begs, pressing his lips against the top of grey-streaked dark strands, throat parched, needing more of Qrow to fill him up, to make him whole again. As he straightens up, heavy-lidded crimson eyes look back up at him, creasing into breathtaking, red-rimmed, puffy crescent moons, lips pulling back to the tip just for a moment to smile and nod before sinking back onto throbbing flesh again, and Clover finally releases.
It is jarring. It is painful. It is the movement of coming so completely undone with a guttural cry that he cannot breathe, he cannot think, he cannot exist outside of this one motion, feeling himself pour down that narrow throat. He can feel the motions, the Adam's apple bobbing against his thigh as he is drunken in, and that realization adds headiness and disbelief to it all for Qrow will never back down, never allow Clover to win, and Clover adores him for it. He is the better Huntsman. Clover will relinquish that mantle happily, for nothing could be greater than serving in, and learning from, Qrow's shadow forever.
When he finally collapses, arms thrown back onto the cot by his head, his world in a haze and his chest panting beyond measure, he feels himself slip out of that heat gently before a lean body crawls upwards. Mustering the last of his strength, he grabs underneath the elder's armpits and pulls him upwards so that feathery hair rests upon his bicep, the weight of the elder soothing to the touch. Weakly, he opens his eyes again, catching sight of red looking at him with a mix of anticipation and worry and warmth; Clover can only smile a warbling smile as he sees white droplets upon Qrow's cheek, dribbling from the side of his mouth. Without warning, he leans forward and laps at them, capturing himself mingled with Qrow's skin and saliva in a motion that shocks the elder, but he does not mind; he cannot imagine something more perfect that knowing that he has made Qrow warm again, after so many years of being alone.
"You're so messy," he teases.
Qrow blushes, the innocence of it all enough to take Clover's breath away. "You have a problem with that?"
"No. I love you," he breathes once his lips release Qrow's flesh.
All of that anxiety and fear of disappointing him melts away in Qrow's eyes, and he smiles, voice hoarse and raspy as he whispers, "Thank you."
The fact that he does not say the words back does not bother Clover. This gratitude is far greater- after all, Qrow has not pushed him away. He has accepted Clover's love. He has not left.
He thinks he is worthy of it, and that, in itself, is all the love Clover could ever need.
Clover wants more. For now, however, he simply slips himself and Qrow back into their pants with a weary chuckle, wraps his arms around the elder's waist, drags the blankets up to cover their intertwined bodies, and kisses him until their mingled breaths both lull them to sleep, awaiting the alarms that shall rouse them before dawn.
Two more days- and then a lifetime more. He cannot wait.