A/N: this is just. porn. that is all. pure unedited porn because i was shamelessly enabled and because ironluck is rare and bottom james is even rarer
At the end of the day, it is every contradiction that James finds so alluring.
He has seen Clover in action. Seen him wreathed in the ashes of Grimm as they dissipate into the air, seen him wield Kingfisher as naturally as the moon that brings the tide rushing home. He has seen Clover during every debriefing, speaking with enough certainty and levity to get his teammates going for the day.
Clover is patient and steadfast, confident and careful - he is dignified, and in James' opinion, there is nothing more gratifying than watching a normally dignified man fall apart.
That is what makes it so satisfying when Clover groans, when he knocks his head back against the pillow with his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. This is a desperation that James has never seen anywhere else; this is Clover when he isn't in control, when he is needy, when he is on the verge of falling apart.
He almost does, judging by the small, shaky noise he makes when he rocks his hips down against the toy that is nestled inside him. He almost does, but he doesn't, because if there is one thing he will always be, it is compliant; James allows him another cruel second before he sets his metal hand against his hip.
"Clover," James warns. Clover's eyes snap open, and he halts, looks as if he's about to shatter. "I told you to stay still."
Clover's white-knuckled grip on the headboard wavers. Something in his neck twinges, but his voice is blessedly steady when he says, "I apologize, sir."
Blood thrums like fire through every space beneath his skin, flushing him red, burning bright in his eyes. James only hums, satisfied enough with the answer, and moves his hand again. Slow, deliberate, down the length of Clover's cock and back again. Squeezes at the head just so, twists his wrist, luxuriously repeats the motions.
Clover's chest heaves. He's biting at his lip again, thighs quaking, nails scrabbling against the headboard once more. There is a calamity to the desperation in him, like the spark that skitters from flint and steel, like the gunpowder that waits to finally ignite.
He aches, James knows, aches to move, aches to touch. Aches and aches but he doesn't move, doesn't come close, doesn't need his hands to be bound by silk when it is James' word alone that keeps them white-knuckling the headboard. That self-control is enough to warrant something like an allowance.
So James tightens his grip, pumps faster, listens to how Clover's breaths start to come out heavy and stilted. But that is why this is an allowance and not a reward; not for the first time that night, he retracts his hand before they can get too far. Before that explosion erupts, before that wildfire ignites and swallows him whole.
Clover hisses out between his clenched teeth, and because James is strict but not cruel, he says, "Move your hips. Slowly."
Immediately, Clover does as he is told. He rolls his hips, the movement jerky with the effort to remain languid, his thighs quaking anew. His eyes are filled with so much want, heavy in the seafoam that simmers in a fine ring, lurking in the abyss of his pupils. He watches every movement - tracks how James reaches for the lube again, holds his breath when he slicks his fingers.
James reaches back to press the pads of two fingers against his entrance. He rubs slowly, spreads the lube over his hole, allows it to drip down his inner thigh. It is more for show than anything. He is painfully hard, painfully empty, but it is worth the small noise that Clover makes.
Clover watches him like he's the center of the universe, like he's the thing that breathes stars out into the night sky, like he's the force that ties planets to their orbits; there is reverence, and there is want, and as he watches James ease a third finger into himself, he fails to stifle a soft whine.
That noise alone sends electricity sparking through wires and flames rushing through veins. James uses his metal hand to pin Clover's hips down to the mattress. That only pushes the toy deeper, and Clover gasps, ruined, helpless - and then James is in his lap, guiding his cock with his left hand, dragging the head against his slicked entrance.
"You don't come without my permission," James states. Low, stern, almost a growl. Clover's cock twitches in his hand. "Understood?"
"Yes, sir," he shakily breathes.
A broken noise leaves Clover's lips when James sinks down onto his cock. The stretch is luxurious, gratifying, like the reach of dawn across the tundra, the burn of the sun as it breaches the horizon. He settles on Clover's lap for a moment. Grinds slow, relishes in the faint pleasure that pools in his gut.
Mostly, it is because of Clover; it is to appreciate the arch in Clover's back, the sheen of sweat on his skin. To drink in the sight before him, lovelier than the shattered moon, headier than the heat that pools between his thighs. Clover makes a helpless noise, but he does not beg, does not speak without being spoken to first.
He's so good, James thinks as he angles his hips, lifts himself on his knees, he's so good when he's so debauched. Before he drops back down, he says, "You can move your hands."
It takes a second, a heartbeat before Clover's hands fly down to James' thighs. James doesn't give any other warning before he's moving; he's fierce, merciless, uncaring to the harsh groan that tears itself from Clover's throat. Clover digs his fingers in, hard enough to bruise on one side and tremble against the other.
James leans forwards, reaches that angle that sends flames lapping up his spine. He groans, low and ragged, and he can't find it in himself to complain when Clover bucks up into him. That's always how he has been. Eager to please, quick to gasp out for something he's too incoherent to name, trying so hard to be so good.
And it isn't even that he has to try. He knows what James likes, knows when to let go of one thigh and grip his cock instead. "That's it," James growls out, "that's it - you're doing so good."
Clover's eyes flutter shut, his rhythm stuttering for just a moment before he picks back up in earnest. It is a push and pull, water that flows both ways; James reaches forwards to dig his fingers into the soft flesh beneath Clover's jaw, clenches hard around his cock as he does so.
Clover is a stunning sight, tensing with that telltale arch in his back, his strangled moan going straight to James' dick. He is at that ledge, grasping at straws, clinging for purchase that crumbles by the second. James can almost feel the desperation in Clover, hot and heavy, pounding hard in his jugular.
James almost doesn't hear it, almost misses the way Clover gasps, "Please."
It is an offense, a breach in this game they've agreed to, but James is too fucked-out to care. He sounds gravelly, absolutely wrecked, but he doesn't care, can't care for anything beyond Clover when he commands, "Come for me."
Clover makes an awfully ragged noise, almost a sob, eyes rolling back. There is a sweet throb in James' hips, in his blood, rushing through veins and wires alike. There are sparks behind his eyelids, white noise in his ears, but Clover doesn't stop stroking, doesn't do much other than quake and gasp and give.
James comes with a low, drawn-out groan, hips stuttering and grinding down against the cock that slowly flags inside him. Eases his grip around Clover's throat, listens to the heavy breaths that follow. For a moment, there is a lakewater stillness, a bliss that settles like a petal that falls in the wind.
Then, James lifts himself on shaky knees, allowing Clover to slip out of him. He has just enough energy to ease the toy out of Clover before he finally settles. He was never one for touch, never sought it out, but he also never minds when Clover reaches out to him.
James allows Clover a moment of respite, lets him thread their fingers together for a brief moment before he says, "We need to clean up."
"I know," Clover hums. "In a minute."
A minute turns into five, then twenty, but James doesn't mind that, either.