touch (scintillas)
His tongue delves as deep as it can go, and crimson eyes can only disappear in ecstasy. Clover knows that the wait has been worth it.
Qrow grimaces, his canines biting so hard into thin, pretty pink lips that a drop of scarlet begins to well up; the man is too distracted to focus his Aura on the wound, leaving himself vulnerable, blood slowly staining his lips and teeth as he gasps and writhes and moans, his feeble attempts to break free of Clover's grasp getting him nowhere. Clover watches it, fixated as he props up Qrow's curled body, holding his hips and legs up whilst his nose brushes against throbbing flesh, his lips meeting puckered skin, his tongue curling. He retreats for a moment, taking in a breath- licking lips, watching the elder squirm, fingertips idly tracing patterns into dark hair upon pale thighs before he dives back in, willingly giving up his oxygen once again in favour of tasting sweetness upon his tongue.
Qrow is better than the cake, he decides idly, seeing smears of red velvet crumbs still lingering upon the elder's chest, a stark contrast to rosy, flushed skin. The crumbs cling to him, sticking to pearly fluid and cream cheese frosting, a veritable mess as it drips up his torso, melting and swimming with the burning heat under his skin. Clover shall clean him up later.
For now, he pops open a bottle, covering his fingers with cool gel; then, he allows his tongue to push in as far as he can go, lips gently sucking on trembling flesh which parts for him and him alone, before pulling away, allowing his fingers to enter, allowing his mouth to seek Qrow's need.
The sweat which rolls down Qrow's cheeks and forehead, mingling with saliva and burgeoning tears, is beautiful as Clover swallows him whole, fingers searching, twisting and curling, throat full. He could stay like this forever, he thinks as his own vision begins to swim. He knows he should pull back, should allow air to fill his lungs, should allow this to last as long as possible.
Yet, he finds that nothing is as perfect as the feeling of Qrow filling him up wholly, so he does not pull away, even as his fingers strike gold, the body underneath him growing stiff and limp and twisting in pleasure, even as flesh swells even further, blocking all airflow. He does not need air, he thinks. He just needs this.
And once Qrow has peaked, his back arching off the bed as he tightens and grows and explodes within and around Clover, Clover drinks greedily, for perhaps if he consumes enough, he'll stop needing air entirely. All he'll need is this, bittersweet, pouring down his throat as Qrow grunts and cries and gasps. That would be perfect.
When Qrow grows limp and weak in his arms, he lets the elder lie down at last, pulling his lips free with a pop, strands of saliva and Qrow pulling between his bruised lips and exhausted flesh. He swallows, watching the elder shudder and gasp and melt in the afterglow for a moment before allowing his nose to nuzzle into dark, soft curls, brushing up a coarse trail, tongue lapping up scattered crumbs and sweat and frosting until he hovers above Qrow properly. Then, he kisses the other man, sharing the taste- the sweetness, the tang.
Qrow is beet-red as he realizes what is being done. He does not pull away, though; his trembling hands merely find Clover's, bringing Clover up to cup Qrow's cheek.
Clover's touch is his reward, Clover realizes, eyes widening, heart clenching, watching the elder nuzzle into Clover's palm as his mouth opens, awaiting whatever Clover wants to give him.
That realization is what undoes Clover. He makes a mess with a silent, wordless cry, covering himself and Qrow, unable to hold it any longer. Clover is Qrow's reward.
His need does not dissipate, however. He simply smiles, scooping up scalding liquid from Qrow's skin, bringing it up to the elder's mouth. Without complaint, Qrow consumes, as long as Clover's hand holds Qrow's cheek.
It is a good thing he has booked them in for a mission later the following morning. They have a long night ahead of them.