touch (scintillas)
He feels almost guilty, doing this.
Just as Qrow knows exactly how to bring Clover to his knees, how to make him succumb and crumble- Qrow's fingers stroking his lips makes him lose his need for oxygen without fail, every single time- Clover now understands exactly how to make Qrow forget his insecurities, his worries, his fears.
That is how he finds himself lying back, leaning against rumpled pillows and sweat-soaked bedsheets, as Qrow's hands grip his shoulders for balance while he sinks himself further down onto Clover, until all they can feel is the other, their bodies connected so intimately that Clover cannot help but wonder whether they are two halves split in the cosmos, finally intertwined the way they were always meant to be. Qrow moves without shame, no longer fearing striking too hard or rushing too quickly, for he has finally internalized that Clover cannot be broken without Qrow's desire to see him so; and, Clover's hand cups Qrow's cheek, thumb trailing underneath crimson eyes, down gaunt cheeks, across a stubble-lined chin, delving into his mouth. Qrow opens, pliant and needy and wanton without restraint as long as that hand is there- as long as reassurance is present that Clover will catch him when he falls.
Clover will always catch him. Qrow has no need to fear. Not anymore.
So, Qrow inches his way down until he cannot any further, their thighs pressed into one another, bodies slick with sweat. The elder already whimpers, liquid dribbling from his mouth, his tip; needy hands claw, digging into Clover's shoulders as he adjusts, catching his breath, hovering over Clover with trembling arms.
Clover merely strokes his face gently, his other hand running down the elder's body, fingers tapping and scratching and brushing and pressing, running up and along veins and sensitive skin as he relishes in the way Qrow tightens with every intimate touch.
He wants to move.
He almost does.
And then, one of those hands gripping his shoulders moves down to cup his swollen chest, already bruised and sore from Qrow's ministrations during their brief respite; those fingers grab, squeeze, pull, before trailing back up his sternum, collarbone, Adam's apple, chin, to his lips.
He does not move, aside from the parting of his lips, the rolling back of his eyes. He knows what the elder wants.
He is going to be used, and he cannot wait.
So, as Qrow begins to move, his fingers moving into Clover's mouth in time with hips that consume, shiver, swallow greedily until Clover can give no more, moving faster and slower and never enough for Clover to ever truly crumble, Clover stays his own hips, his own desires, merely focusing on wrapping his hand exploring that lean, heavy, muscled body around Qrow's heat, gradually applying more and more pressure at the base, twining with dark curls, fingers tightening. Qrow squeezes in response, and all Clover can do is hold on as the elder moves exactly how he wants, completely entrenched in his own pleasure, head thrown back, chin and neck exposed, mouth agape.
His cheek never leaves Clover's hand, though. Never.
Finally, when he feels Qrow's body tiring, too focused on trembling and shivering as he uses Clover to strike himself perfectly each time, his flesh pulsing with need within Clover's restrictive grasp, fingers slip out of Clover's mouth, landing back upon broad shoulders, and Clover looks up at him again, waiting for permission.
"Please," Qrow whispers.
Without a word, Clover releases Qrow, grabbing onto his hips, lifting the man higher, and moving.
He dives in without restraint, body having already memorized exactly where to assault the elder, leaving naught but a silent scream in Qrow's throat. The released pressure causes the elder to collapse, his entire body twisted in blissful agony as his body stiffens, the heat and space growing so unbearable that Clover, too, can hold on no longer.
It is terrifying, just how much pleasure he derives from placing his palm flat against the trail of coarse hair leading up to a small navel as he releases, knowing that he is filling Qrow up; the very thought causes him to surge anew, body tightening, grip so fierce upon a bony hip that it would harm a lesser creature. Not Qrow, though. Qrow only groans, his own hand weakly catching his own mess as the last drops fall away before finding Clover's hand, covering the younger with his palm, holding it pressed against his abdomen while Clover spills into him.
Absently, Clover realizes that he should go visit the medical ward one of these days- they will not always have the luxury of time to clean up after, so he shall invest in condoms and more lubricant and anything else Qrow desires to make it easiest for the elder. For now, however, he focuses on the way Qrow attempts to pull himself up once he is conscious and aware- how Qrow can't, too weak and spent. He smiles, tenderly cupping and hoisting upwards, using his own failing strength to release himself from Qrow's touch.
It is a dangerous game, for seeing himself drip slowly from puckering, needy flesh is dizzying. So, he only allows it for but a moment. Then, he lets the elder collapse onto him, holding his face, his waist, whispering words of praise and adoration into his ear, for Qrow is perfect, no one else can make him feel like this, he is beautiful, Clover has never felt his Semblance more than when Qrow is here-
By those words alone, Qrow seems to shiver and tremble again, and Clover realizes faintly that he is coming undone yet again, so wrapped up in Clover's husky voice in his ear and his heartbeat pounding in time with Qrow's that even without spilling another drop, he crumbles. Clover holds him through it all, kisses given freely upon dark, grey-streaked hair, on half-lidded eyes, on a mouth that has forgotten how to close, so drunk with sensation and stimulation.
Then, they rest. They are content for now.