A/N: this is just porn, both because i was shamelessly enabled and because there is a tragic lack of trans clover. i will be using feminine terminology when referring to his hardware, so to speak, so viewer discretion is advised :)))


Clover doesn't mean to stay so late.

It seems like something of an inevitability, though, when there's an endless line of reports to be done and finer details that must not be overlooked in each one. He doesn't realize that it's been hours since his last meeting for the day ended until the horizon already bleeds a velvet-mottled navy from the last few rays of the sunset.

What first snaps his attention away from his Scroll is the question directed towards him from a familiar voice. He doesn't have to turn to know that it's Qrow who perches on the ledge of the desk, not for the first time that evening.

"You've been here all day, lucky charm," Qrow says, not reproachful but definitely not pleased. "A little rest never hurts."

Clover answers with a distracted little hum, adding after a long pause, "After this last one."

The silence that follows drags on long enough for him to assume that this is another allowance, but whatever calm there is cracks down the middle when he feels the lips against his jaw. They trail lower, lower, against his neck, right where he knows Clover likes it.

"You said that two hours ago."

"Qrow," Clover says, half warning, half pleading. There's a hint of teeth against his skin, over his pulse, one that jumps, pounds, races in time with the trail of Qrow's fingers down to his waistband. He's grasping at straws when he murmurs, "There's a few things that I still need to get done."

Clover isn't given a warning before Qrow is on him, squeezed between him and the desk, legs on either side of him. The suddenness of it prompts him to drop his Scroll with a clatter and push his chair back. Somehow, Qrow manages to sink lower. How he fits beneath the desk, Clover doesn't know, doesn't have the time to consider it before his thighs are nudged apart.

"What you need is a break," Qrow says. "When's the last time you had a night off?"

Clover doesn't suppose that's a serious question - or maybe it is, but he isn't exactly capable of thinking about much beyond the fingers that tug at his waistband. His Scroll is still lit, glaring at him from the tabletop, the idle tick tick tick of the clock above reminding him of exactly where they are.

Needlessly, Clover reminds him, "We're not somewhere private."

There's something feral in Qrow's gaze, something that threatens to swallow Clover whole if he isn't careful. His trousers are tugged lower, and already, he can feel the anticipation that burns low in his gut when one leg is pulled free.

"And?" Qrow presses his lips to the side of one knee, his hand trailing higher against the other. His voice hooks low into a heady purr when he says, "I want to taste you."

That alone sends a flare of heat pooling between Clover's thighs, and fleetingly, he glances back to the clock. It's far past any scheduled meetings and most other officers' patrols, but that doesn't make the risk any less grand. And somehow, that's exhilarating, almost more so than the next kiss that Qrow presses higher up against his thigh.

"You're going to get me in trouble one of these days," Clover says, but that doesn't stop him from weaving his fingers through Qrow's hair and tugging him closer.

The fluidity in which Qrow settles between his outstretched thighs is mesmerizing, enough promise in his grin to be lethal. Clover can feel the unabashed want in the hands that catch him just under his knees, in the breath that washes over him as his thighs are spread wider.

"So keep quiet," Qrow tells him.

The first pass of his tongue is thick, heady, up from Clover's entrance to his clit and back again. It's more of a mapping than anything, stoking the flames, deliberately slow until Clover's grip tightens in his hair. He's pretty like this, pretty when he glances upwards, pretty when he delves his tongue deeper and draws out a sharp gasp.

Qrow's gaze is a wildfire that threatens to swathe him, smouldering like the pulse in Clover's throat that thrums with how quickly it's pounding. There's no warning before Qrow's lips wrap around his clit, and the sensation is harsh, electrifying, everything he wants; the pleasure skitters up Clover's spine, smoulders like molten silver, builds until he's left panting, quaking.

Qrow's hair is soft in his fingers, long enough to tug, to hold on to, and Qrow melts into it - whines at a particularly harsh tug, sends the vibration rumbling under Clover's skin, into his blood as it rushes and scalds. The noises he makes are stifled in the back of his other hand, overshadowed only by the slick pass of Qrow's tongue against him.

It's almost as sudden as it starts, this peak, this tremble of something delicate before it shatters, swelling far too quickly when there's no teasing to wade through. Clover squirms, tries to squeeze his thighs shut, but Qrow only holds him open wider and gives. He always gives, gives more than he ever asks for, gives before he dares to take.

It's that point where stars collide, where a singularity gives, where it bursts and expands and breathes a spectrum out in every direction. There's bliss as much as there's an ache; there's torture as much as there's relief; there's Qrow's hair tight in his fist, the rumble of Qrow's needy moan against his cunt, the slick grind of his clit along Qrow's flattened tongue quickly becoming too much.

Clover releases his grip when he starts to quake, when he pants for breath and can take no more. He's swathed in the blissful stillness that follows, boneless amongst glittering stardust, lost against a fading tide. He's brought back to Remnant by the teeth against his inner thigh.

"You're falling asleep on me, shamrock," Qrow teases. His voice is rougher than usual, skin flushed a pretty red, chin still glistening. "That good, huh?"

Clover fists his hair again, tugs him upwards, and slots their lips together. It's messy, filthy, the taste of himself sharp on Qrow's tongue, a shaky breath ghosting between them when he pulls back just enough to growl, "I'm not done with you yet."

It's a bad idea, probably, but Clover tends to stop caring when it's Qrow who unravels him. Qrow readily follows the grip that hauls him forwards and switches their places. It's a frantic few heartbeats before he settles in Qrow's lap, the slightest creak of agony beneath them, hands flying up to rest on his thighs.

Clover prefers him like this, sometimes - not desperate but close to it, fingers trembling against him, irises smouldering a pretty red like the linings of his veins where they circle his blown-out pupils. Slowly, patiently, Clover unbuttons Qrow's trousers and delves his fingers beneath. A small noise leaves Qrow's lips unbidden as he's pulled free, his cock hard and dripping against Clover's palm, the fierce heat in his eyes enough to leave Clover wanting already.

He pumps a few times, the dry drag of skin on skin unsatisfying, smearing precome against heated skin until he lowers his hips. He grinds against Qrow's cock, down and back again, slick and hot and sinuously languid. He isn't sensitive, but it's close, each pass against his clit just shy of too much before it melts into something maddening.

He clenches around nothing, wants like it's a lifeline, aches with a pulse. The head catches against his hole, teasing, promising; Qrow's chest heaves, and he arches up into the touch, tightens his grip until it's near-bruising. He doesn't try to reach for more, though, only takes what is given, stays blessedly silent even when he looks like he's close to breaking.

There's a purity to the way Qrow fills him, the stretch something like a breath of fresh air, a lick of fire up his spine. Clover settles in Qrow's lap, lets his eyes flutter shut, feels how Qrow mouths against the column of his throat. They stay joined like that for a moment, just a moment, a thunderclap waiting to happen, gunpowder waiting to ignite.

"Shit," Clover sighs. Finally rolls his hips, and in turn, Qrow lets out a strangled sound - wounded and left bare, needy and left clinging to him as if anything less will lose him. "You feel so good, handsome. Like you were made for me."

He can feel the shaky sigh against his skin and the faint tremor of Qrow's thighs. Clover lifts himself, the white-hot drag of Qrow's cock gratifying, electricity flaring between his thighs when he drops back down. He only vaguely registers the strain of the chair and the glow of fluorescent lights that dance in Qrow's eyes. Something about the vulnerability, the threat of where they are, sends a heady rush of adrenaline hammering in his veins.

His lungs feel heavy, blood flows sedimentary. Time slows to a crawl as he sets a torturously languid pace, and soon, a frustrated hiss rushes out from the gaps in Qrow's teeth. It isn't enough for either of them, but Clover is patient, endlessly patient if that means he gets to see Qrow frantic and desperate. It's a bliss that sits just out of reach, a fleeting skitter of pleasure, like the strike of flint against steel that sparks but doesn't flare, flashes but doesn't ignite.

"Cloves," Qrow groans. The sound is ragged and hungry, dragged out until it's dangerously close to a whine. "Come on."

Clover can't help but goad him further - kisses him again, hot and languid, leaving him with a lingering bite to his lower lip. He settles and doesn't lift himself, only grinds down on Qrow's dick as he murmurs, "Why should I?"

That seems to be the ignition, the collision, the strike that lights the gasoline left to almost dry; Clover doesn't get the begging he goads, only a lethal glint in Qrow's eyes as hands come up under his knees and grip. He scrambles to find his balance as he's lifted up and thrown backwards against the desk. The impact steals the breath from his lungs, but it's the way Qrow slots back into him afterwards that refuses to give it back.

"Gods, fuck, you feel -" Qrow's breath hitches as he seats himself deep, grinds when there's nothing left to give. Clover clenches hard around him, and he makes a raw, broken sound. "Holy fuck."

He hitches Clover's legs up higher to hook over his waist. Then, he's moving, there isn't enough time, isn't enough warning, isn't enough oxygen to fill the space between them; there's teeth against his pulse, fingers digging into his skin, and all Clover can do is hold on and feel.

Qrow shifts just a bit and thrusts at an angle that has Clover gasping out for something he can't quite name. It's a bliss like none other, this white-hot ache in his cunt, the way it pulses and ripples through his hips like the broken surface of a lake. He arches up into Qrow, lets out a broken moan that he couldn't contain even if he tried.

He has half the mind to tug Qrow into another kiss, but it's more of a shared breath than anything, open-mouthed and slick, nothing less than hunger and need. He clenches, writhes, bites and tugs on Qrow's lower lip. Qrow makes a broken sound, breaks away to shove his face into his throat, fucks him like there isn't a tomorrow there to greet them.

And perhaps there isn't. Perhaps there isn't, but with the tether that grounds them there, with the push and pull like that of the moon and the tide, tomorrow can wait. It can wait for the mould to break, the spark to burst, the lull afterwards that he knows will come; it can wait, because Qrow is here and focused on nothing else, and that's all Clover can ask for.

The pressure that builds is all-consuming, in his hips and in his blood, something sweet that hammers and swells but doesn't give. "Qrow," he gasps out, "A little more, gorgeous, I'm -"

Qrow's fingers delve low between them to grind against his clit, rough and mind-numbing and perfect, and that's all it takes for the pressure to burst. It's a thunderclap beneath his skin, a lightning-crack that sends his nerves alight, a pulsing ecstasy that sends him soaring. Qrow only fucks him through it, his breaths harsh, ragged, breaking into a whine as his hips finally stutter to a stop.

The added slick of Qrow's come inside him is a novelty before it's uncomfortable, and for the moment, he sighs and settles. There's a stillness that follows, not like the glasslike eye of the storm but the tranquility that comes after it. Clover presses an open-mouthed kiss to the bite mark on Qrow's throat that he didn't realize he left.

Qrow is the first to move, slipping out of him with an obscene noise. Beneath them, the desk creaks again, sharp and agonizing, audible to them now that the calm has settled. Clover sits up with a grimace, murmuring, "Oh, that's gonna be sore later."

"Serves you right for not giving me attention sooner," Qrow says, voice rough and clipped, a grin already on his lips.

"If that's what I get for staying late, then I might just keep it up."

Faintly, Qrow laughs, and Clover tucks his nose just beneath his jaw. They can't stay for very long, but that's fine; Clover weaves their fingers loosely together and nuzzles lazily for a short moment, and that's enough before they must go.