touch (scintillas)
He does not know what compels him to do so, but as he is laid back, that tall, lean body sliding his knees apart, sliding between and filling up his view, Clover finds his eyes drawn upwards to flushed, panting cheeks, eyes which glisten and shimmer like rubies in the afternoon light, lips which are bruised and pink enough to match dusky nubs upon curved muscles. This is truly happening. He is here, and Qrow will take him.
Before he realizes it, his hand reaches downwards, gently grabbing hold of cool, throbbing flesh which has already been slicked and prepared, his touch so light that Qrow can only gasp, eyes rolling shut until they focus upon him once again. "Give me a second," is the croaking, yet fond answer.
Clover does not respond. He merely guides his finger up to the tip, shivering as he remembers how each groove and bump and ridge under his fingertips feels upon his tongue, down his throat; then, he seeks out the divot, scratching short nails lightly across aching heat before pressing down.
His fingertip enters- just slightly. He is warm.
The garbled cry, guttural and broken from Qrow's stomach, is enough to bring Clover back up again, and he slowly pulls his finger back, stroking the entrance one last time, marking down the look of breathless shock on Qrow's face for later.
The elder trembles, his neck tensed, tendons and muscles straining, jaw clenched shut as he fights back his release. "You- brothers, you can't do that-"
"You're right," Clover mumbles, still unable to truly enunciate after his own disassembly. "Not yet."
Then, he guides Qrow to him and sighs, sinking into the bed, knees spread. Clumsily, he grabs a pillow from near the headboard and lays it under his hips, leaving himself open, exposed, vulnerable.
He smiles.
Qrow swallows.
And then, it begins.