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Upon retrospective examination of the facts, Qrow has always known what type of monster his roommate is. Clover’s aversion to Qrow’s rings when they first shook hands. His teeth, sharper than they ought to be when he laughs at Qrow’s bad attitude over breakfast. And, of course, his recurring disappearances around the full moon.
Some part of Qrow’s subconscious quietly deduced the truth and shelved it. The sad fact is, a middle school teacher’s salary still requires Qrow to split rent on his apartment. Clover pays his half on time, every time. He doesn’t complain when Qrow filches his snacks, and he's fantastic to look at to boot.
So when Clover sits Qrow down on the third day of what Channel Four calls “the storm of the century” and reveals his true nature with all the sincerity of a devout confessor, Qrow can’t help his underwhelmed reaction.
“‘Okay?’” Clover says. “That’s it?”
From where he's reclined on their couch, Qrow drags his gaze over Clover, who looks up through his lashes, openly nervous.
“Does there need to be more?”
In the chair across from Qrow, Clover leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and laces his fingers together. His green eyes study Qrow in a way that would normally make Qrow flighty.
“You're taking this really well,” says Clover. “Too well, maybe.”
“Yeah.” Qrow scratches the scruff on the underside of his jaw where, once, fangs sank home and drank with abandon. A wave of dizziness crashes over him, as if he’s still losing blood. “Not my first brush, if I’m being honest. Can't say I knew your particular”—he waves vaguely at Clover—“thing was legit, though.”
Clover’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Who—”
He breaks off with a sharp breath that saves Qrow from having to lie around his employment and dating history. Clover’s fingers curl tight on the armrest, the freckles on his nose wrinkling as a shudder rolls through him. The blizzard raging through Vale obscures the evening sky, but Qrow does some half-assed math without taking his eyes off Clover.
“Full tonight?” he asks.
It takes Clover a few seconds to respond as the tremor passes. “Tomorrow,” he says, sounding spent in a way that has Qrow’s dick interested. “But the closer it gets, the more I get kind of—”
“Moony?” Qrow suggests.
Clover grins, dubiously delighted, and Qrow lingers on his canines. “Something like that. I have a place I normally go, but with the storm—”
“You don’t need my permission to stay in the apartment, Cloves,” Qrow says, waving him off. “You pay rent for that right.”
“You’re not scared?”
“I got any reason to be?” Qrow cocks his head, appraising. With Clover’s chest busting at the seams of his henley and a few inches of verticality, he certainly has the mass advantage, but Harbinger’s coated in silver. Qrow moves faster than most people expect, when it counts. “Not gonna eat me, are you?”
Clover winks. “Depends how you ask.”
“Oh, piss off.”
Clover lights up like his day’s been made with the heat in Qrow’s cheeks. Qrow can almost picture a tail thumping against the backrest behind him. Cute.
Qrow stands, stretches, and sighs when his back cracks. The storm has made their refrigerator scarce, but Qrow’s sure there’s cold pizza with his name on it jammed somewhere near the back.
“Qrow.”
“Hm?” He should have a fruit, too. He supposes he can suck on some of the freezer-burnt strawberries Clover uses for smoothies.
Clover says, “Could you lock your door tonight?”
Qrow wheels around. “And you’re sure you’re not going to eat me.”
“Of course not. I can get a little…” Clover searches for the word, smiling at it like a joke when he finds it. “Territorial ”
Qrow arches an eyebrow. “What, are you not housetrained? I swear to god, if you piss anywhere near—”
“No, I just mean—” Clover laughs and leans back in his chair, ankle crossed over his knee. Qrow isn’t sure if it's his imagination or the position that makes Clover appear taller, his chest a little wider. Maybe that’s a side effect of the moon, too. “Wolves don’t have the best sense of personal space. But the human part of me doesn't want to scare the crap out of you in the middle of the night. Again,” Clover adds, chin dipping.
A few months after Clover moved in, Qrow passed out on the couch after his tried-and-true combination of a reality TV marathon and takeout. When Clover tried to shake him awake, Qrow roused swinging, lucky misses until he realized Clover wasn’t trying to bleed him out. Qrow doubts he’d have the same reaction to puppy-Clover curling up in his blankets.
“Yeah, I’ll lock up.” Qrow runs a hand through his hair and levels a finger at Clover. “Don’t scratch up my door. I want my three-fifty back.”
“Please.” Clover grins. “Your relationship with the security deposit was decided long before I moved in.”
In the velvet dark, Qrow's bed dips with a foreign weight, and he moves without fully waking. Before he can reach Harbinger beneath his pillow, he’s pinned to the mattress by hands that wrap easily-and-then-some around his forearms. Nails—no, blunted claws dig into his skin, not drawing blood but pricking hard enough to send a jolt of adrenaline down Qrow's spine. He thrashes, a rabbit in a trap, and twists his face out of the sheets to suck air.
The wind screams past his window, as frantic as his own rasping breath. Each seizing beat of his heart causes his eyes to bulge against their sockets as Qrow blinks sense into the vague gray. The thing on top of Qrow buries its face into his exposed collar and inhales deeply, coarse hair dragging against Qrow’s skin.
Keen teeth scrape over the soft intersection of his neck and shoulder. Qrow shuts his eyes.
The creature's molten exhale smells sharply of his roommate’s spearmint mouthwash. “Q-Qrow.”
Clover’s voice grinds out like a physical abrasion, and Qrow’s heart speeds its desperate bounce against the bed, not entirely out of fear. He’s never heard his name said like that—from anyone, much less from Clover—whispered as if deprived of some vital need. Clover's tongue laps over Qrow’s shivering throat.
Territorial, he said.
“Hell of a wake-up call, Cloves.” Qrow's breath hitches as Clover’s breath pools across the wet patch. “Heard of knocking?”
The claws around Qrow’s wrists slacken. “Qrow?” Clover sounds groggy, buoying up from a dream. Then, he says again, “Qrow,” the single syllable now dripping with horror. Clover scrambles away. “Shit.”
Qrow yanks his legs up and flattens his back against the headboard. Sweat plasters his bare skin. Harbinger’s worn, wooden handle fits perfectly into Qrow’s callouses, ready to help him out of another tight spot, but Qrow doesn’t yet brandish it toward the cowering form at the end of his bed. He himself feels caught in a dream, body heavy and distant from his mind.
“I’m so sorry,” Clover croaks. “I didn’t mean to, I swear. Oh, god, Qrow, are you okay? Did I—?”
“Lights,” Qrow hears himself say.
Clover makes a distressed noise of acknowledgement. Qrow fumbles for his table lamp and throws the room into dim gold.
Clover is certainly not a puppy—not a wolf or a man either, but something in between and wild. He stretches a foot taller than normal, his shoulders likewise broadened by the waxing moon. Dark, coppery fur covers his clawed extremities, and thick hair decorates the skin that’s left. A tail cowers between his legs. His face is all still Clover—same soft-edged gaze, squinting in the light, same early laugh lines around his trembling lips. All except for the extra scruff on his jawbone and the canine ears, pinned back like he’s waiting to be scolded.
“Please say something,” he says. “I need—I need to know if I hurt you.”
“I’m okay.”
Clover’s sigh of relief is more akin to a sob. “You didn’t lock it.”
“I blanked,” Qrow says, glancing at the open door—is it hanging a little crooked? Honestly, the conversation with Clover was out of his mind by the time he finished his pizza. No one should fault him for getting too lax around the supernatural, considering. “That’s on me. But I’m okay.”
Qrow studies Clover's flushed face. Sweat beads at his temples, his breath coming in short, labored pants. Under Qrow’s scrutiny, he skirts Qrow’s gaze and swallows hard. Qrow follows the bob of his throat.
“Are you okay?”
Clover doesn't answer except for a whimper. Still holding Harbinger, Qrow edges closer. He doesn’t have to get far to feel the waves of heat pouring off Clover, heady and trapped in his fur.
“Is this—normal?” Qrow asks. “For you?”
Clover shakes his head, and wraps his furry forearms around his midsection like he has a stomach ache. “No,” he gasps. “I’ve never—I was half-asleep, and I caught your scent.” His lips part, pink tongue darting out between his razor teeth. “I didn’t even realize what I was doing, I just wanted to—” Clover bites off the rest of the sentence.
“To what?”
Clover’s eyes are low with shame as he raises them to Qrow’s. “To be close to you,” he whines.
The squalling storm fills the silence where Qrow weighs his options. Then, he uncurls his grip from Harbinger’s hilt and creeps toward the end of the bed. When he’s close enough, he reaches out and lays his hand against Clover’s cheek. His skin boils, damp beneath Qrow’s palm.
“I think you’re sick,” says Qrow.
Clover's ears twitch as he nuzzles into Qrow’s touch. Up close, they’re thick and soft-looking. Qrow resists the impulse to rub one between his fingers.
“I know I am,” Clover murmurs. “But not like you’re thinking.”
Clover’s eyes fall shut, the image so perfect that Qrow gnaws on his inner cheek to confirm he really isn’t still dreaming. Beneath the hair, Clover’s chest is the same shade as his face, nipples rosed and puffy. He wears a pair of gray athletic shorts that probably fit well before he grew. Now, they pull tight across his muscular thighs and the heavy bulge between his legs. He’s sick exactly like Qrow’s thinking.
“Come here,” Qrow says.
Clover jerks, brows creeping together. “What?”
“It’s my fault for not locking the door.” Qrow doesn’t miss the way Clover follows after his retreating hand as he scoots to settle back against the headboard. “I can help you out with—whatever this is.”
Clover lurches forward, then freezes. “Qrow,” he says, rough with effort. “I don’t think you understand what you’re offering—”
“I understand just fine,” Qrow growls. He splays his knees, and Clover’s eyes snap between them. Qrow pats the inside of his thigh. “C’mere, puppy.”
Clover stills, pupils two pools of blooming ink. As if pulled on an unseen leash, he falls forward and crawls to Qrow, the bedsheets shredding between his claws. As he looms between Qrow's legs, a foreign sensation of smallness, of breakability, washes through Qrow and coils low in his gut.
The headboard knocks against the wall as Clover shoves back against Qrow’s stubble. He makes a sound that’s better than any wet dream Qrow’s ever had.
“Had no idea how good you smell,” he says, breath steaming over Qrow’s skin. “God, Qrow. I wanna—” He draws back just enough to meet Qrow’s gaze, hopeful and hungry. “Can I kiss you?”
No sooner has Qrow nodded than Clover pounces on him, lips hot enough to burn and barely containing too many teeth. Qrow coils his fingers into Clover’s hair, and Clover’s tongue, much longer and more clever than a human’s, leaves Qrow breathless.
When they separate, chests heaving, Qrow gives in. He folds Clover’s ear in his palm, petting the downy fur and teasing out a satisfied grumble from Clover. He tips his head into it, lips parted and shining with saliva, tail slapping against the sheets. Really cute.
“You like that?” Qrow asks.
“Feels good,” Clover says. In the dull glow of the lamp, his eyes gleam green, and they fix on Qrow like he hung the moon. “Could touch me anywhere, and it’d be good.”
“That so?” muses Qrow. He trails his hand down Clover's sweat-dewed cheek and brushes over Clover's lips. “Here?”
Clover's mouth falls open, expectant. Qrow pushes Clover’s lip back to scrape his thumbpad over the wicked canine, proud and ivory and so, so capable of turning him into mincemeat. He feels rashly foolish for thinking he and Harbinger would’ve stood a chance.
Clover’s tongue lolls against Qrow’s finger in docile welcome. Qrow pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, and Clover makes a garbled keen around him. The whites of his eyes flash as his lids flutter. Qrow smirks.
Drool gathers and pools until it spills over Clover’s lower lip. It drips off his chin and down onto his chest, lost in the hair and heat. Qrow follows its wake, skating down Clover’s breastbone. He flicks a still-wet finger over Clover’s nipple.
“Here?” he asks, and Clover only mewls wordlessly in response.
Clover’s got a proper set of tits on him, and Qrow is nothing if not an appreciator of life’s finer things. To the tune of Clover’s wanting, he takes his time fondling two handfuls of Clover’s chest, misty with sweat. He even smells hot, and it spins Qrow's thoughts into a heady mess. He wonders if Clover's contagious.
“Yeah,” Qrow says to no one in particular. He tweaks one soft nipple just to watch Clover choke and buck into empty air. “Not so scary after all.”
He continues southbound, past Clover’s furred happy trail, and fondles Clover through his skimpy shorts. Qrow feels out the shape of him as Clover cants his hips—the size of him. Qrow’s heartbeat spikes with nervous arousal.
“How ‘bout here?” he asks, voice rough. “That feel good?”
Clover doesn’t answer. He’s preoccupied with humping Qrow’s hand, fuzzy ears flattened and cheeks burning in pink. Behind Qrow, the headboard splinters as his claws bite into it like butter.
Qrow gives his bulge a deliberate squeeze, and Clover gasps and throbs in his hand. His gaze flits up to Qrow, who delivers an unhurried smile.
“Needy, ain’t you?”
Tears bead in Clover’s eyes, glittering like diamonds and twice as valuable. “Please.”
Qrow leans forward. “Now there’s a pretty sound.” He gropes Clover again, and Clover thrusts his face into the crook of Qrow’s neck. “C’mon, keep beggin’ for me, pup.”
“Qrow, please, I need—” Clover drags in a breath against Qrow’s collarbone and grinds his crotch into Qrow’s palm. The breath exits in a teary moan. “I can’t take it—please.”
At once, he’s so pathetic and obscene that it sends tandem strikes of pity and desire through Qrow. The teasing is a bit much, maybe, but how’s Qrow to blame when it gets Clover melting in his hand? He’d be insane to let Clover off the hook that easily.
Another squeeze; Clover whines high in the back of his throat. His shorts are wet.
“Poor baby,” Qrow drawls. “What can’t you take?”
“Not—can’t take not—” Clover struggles to piece the sentence together.
“You got words. Sound it out, pretty boy.”
“Need you. Please, Qrow.” Clover’s thrusting takes on a frenzied edge, and his words slide together. “Can’t stop thinking about you on my cock, ‘bout coming inside you. Please—ah, Qrow—need to come, need you, need to come for you—”
“God, puppy. Yeah, alright,” Qrow says, face ferociously red. He’s thankful for the low lighting, but Clover isn’t in any state to notice. “Show me how you want it, then.”
Clover needs no further instruction. Gripping Qrow’s waist, he hauls Qrow down the bed until he’s flat on his back. He shreds Qrow’s boxers and his own stupid shorts faster than Qrow can process and spits—drools is a more apt term—between Qrow’s legs. He grips Qrow’s ankles in one hand, pushes them up, and shoves his cock between Qrow’s thighs. A few frantic thrusts later, and he comes across Qrow’s stomach and chest with a cry that’s half Qrow’s name and half guttural relief.
Clover drops to his hands, and the bed groans in protest as his claws sink in on either side of Qrow’s head. Clover pants, his head low and his eyes closed and his breath a thousand degrees on Qrow’s skin.
Qrow pats Clover’s furred arm. “Got it out of your system, big guy?”
Clover’s eyes flash open, bright and starving. Before Qrow knows it, he’s back on his stomach, hands pinned above his head. Clover reconsiders the meat above Qrow’s collarbone with his teeth.
In a voice that has an animal edge to it, he says, “Not even close.”
Qrow can’t see his own neck, but by the time Clover’s done with it, he suspects it looks like someone tried and failed to strangle him, badly and multiple times. After, Clover folds him in half and supports his weight like nothing at all while he learns exactly how clever Clover’s tongue is.
When they’re both too feverish to stand it, Clover pulls Qrow into his lap. His claws dig pleasantly into Qrow’s thighs as he watches Qrow work himself open between kisses and whispered praise.
It’s Clover’s luck that allows him to pick the right nightstand drawer. It’s his supernatural strength that causes the drawer to fly out and scatter most of its contents onto the floor: loose condoms and a small selection of toys. Clover slathers his remaining prize, the lube, over his dick. Mindful of his claws, he squeezes himself at the base, and a crease between his eyebrows smoothes in some slight relief.
“Don’t think I got anything big enough to fit that,” Qrow gasps as he slips four fingers out of himself. “Not gonna catch anything, am I?”
“Can’t get lycanthropy from sex.”
“STIs and Ds, dumbass, focus,” Qrow snaps, swatting Clover’s chest.
Clover’s chuckle is warm and rumbling, like thunder before a summer storm. “We can’t carry. ‘M clean.”
Clover stretches onto his side and tugs Qrow against his chest, spooning him. The slick head of his cock catches and slips away. Clover corrects his angle and presses back against Qrow, not quite breaching but enough to make Qrow really think about what he’s about to do. His breath catches.
“Can I?” Clover whispers, like it's something precious.
Qrow nods, and it is. When he thinks back to it later, Qrow won’t remember the pain. He’ll remember the gentle control in Clover’s arms, wrapped around him. He’ll remember writhing back into Clover and finding himself immensely relieved to meet Clover’s steady chest each time. He’ll remember the howling gale and the feeling that time outside his room has stopped.
And, inevitably, he will remember the utter thrill of watching Clover’s cock disappear slowly inside him.
“S-shit.”
“Okay?” Clover noses against him, licking, kissing. “You okay?”
Qrow tastes saltwater and realizes twin tears have slipped down his face. “Yeah, just—fuck, puppy,” Qrow groans. He splays his hand over his stomach. “You always this b-big?”
Qrow squirms as Clover eases an inch further. He likes the dull burn the way he likes his fingers scrabbling uselessly in the torn sheets and Clover's ungiving palm against his chest as leverage.
“Like this—bigger.”
“No shit,” Qrow says with a shaky laugh, even though he's the one who asked. “Holy hell, feels like you’re tryin’ to get me pregnant.”
Clover’s hands go tight on his waist. Qrow cries out as Clover twitches almost involuntarily and sinks the rest of the way into him. A growl gathers somewhere behind Clover’s sternum and rattles against Qrow’s back.
Okay, he thinks faintly. Noted.
Someone makes a breathy, wounded-animal sound, and Qrow can’t tell if it’s coming from him. He’s so full, so warm, and it’s all Clover. He has to remember to breathe.
“‘Kay,” Qrow finally pants. “You can move—ah! Slow, Cloves, s-slow.”
Clover whines restlessly but obeys, settling into a lazy grind-and-bounce that bullies Qrow’s prostate. The pain fades to the background, then to nothing at all. Qrow turns over his shoulder, and Clover kisses him everywhere he can reach: neck, chin, nosetip, then back to slide his mouth messily against Qrow’s.
Qrow breaks away to breathe and a wrecked moan slips out, unbidden. He dimly tastes iron. Right. Teeth. He feels drunk, or what he remembers being drunk feels like.
“So tight.” Clover pulls halfway out and strokes the sensitive skin around Qrow’s hole. Qrow doesn’t have to see it himself to know the stretch is obscene. Clover thrusts roughly back in, and Qrow makes an undignified noise. “So tight, s’pretty, s’perfect—hah—even better than I imagined.”
“Uh-huh,” Qrow says when he regains enough composure to tease. “You imagine fuckin’ me a lot, puppy?”
“Maybe. Hot,” Clover adds, which Qrow appreciates, because he’s right.
“You thinking ‘bout it tonight?” asks Qrow. “Before you fell asleep?”
“Maybe—” As best he can with the angle, Qrow rolls his hips down into Clover’s thrust, and Clover course corrects: “Fuck—y-yes.”
“Good boy,” Qrow coos, and Clover pulses inside him, eager to please. “You touch yourself thinkin’ ’bout getting me like this?”
“Not just like this.” Clover murmurs the words into Qrow’s shoulder, voice so low Qrow almost doesn’t catch them.
Before Qrow can ask, Clover grows impatient with his pace. He snaps his hips out and slams back into Qrow, sending Qrow’s eyes rolling and the thought spiraling off into oblivion. Shaking, Qrow guides Clover’s hand beneath his knee. Clover catches on with enthusiasm and hikes Qrow’s thigh up. The change in angle has Qrow keening.
“That’s it,” Qrow says, spine arching. “Just like that—oh, fuck—good boy, that’s it.”
“So fucking pretty, Qrow,” Clover moans. His tongue laves over the skin beneath Qrow’s jaw, tasting the sweat gathered there. “Feel amazing. Wanna be good for you—wanna feel you come on my cock, Qrow, please, please.”
He hides his face, inhaling Qrow where his throat meets his collar.
“You and the f-fucking sniffing.”
“Can’t—hah—help it. Smell good. Like you’re asking me to.”
Qrow’s brow furrows. “To wha—ah—!”
Something rocks against Qrow’s entrance, impossibly wider than the rest of Clover.
“Clover,” gasps Qrow. “What—?”
“Knot.”
“For—” Qrow’s brain scrambles. “For—why?”
“Make sure it takes,” Clover pants. “Keep you full.”
He's not serious. Qrow squirms to try and get a look at Clover's face, but Clover rumbles, a warning, and yanks Qrow insistently back down. Qrow's back bridges, and white flashes behind his eyes. The knot catches but isn't quite large enough to lock Clover inside, leaving Qrow bouncing between too much and not enough with each thrust.
He can't feel his toes. Qrow says weakly, “Y-you know you can't actually get me pregnant, right, asshole?”
“Lemme prove you wrong,” Clover says, nipping at Qrow’s ear. Qrow can hear the feral smile in his words. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“You are—ah—you're insane.”
“C’mon,” Clover says, low and wicked, and he throbs inside Qrow. “Think you’d look even prettier fucked fat with my cum. Let it drip out, then”—Clover grinds deeper—“right back in.”
Qrow throws his head back as Clover bottoms out inside him. “God, Clover, fuck—”
“Hah.” Clover chuckles, but his tempo stutters. Into Qrow’s shoulder, he adds with some difficulty, “Y’know I won't, right? If you don’t want—I won’t.” His index finger worries a circle into Qrow’s abdomen, claw lightly scratching the skin. “Wouldn’t ever, if you didn’t want—"
“I know,” Qrow says before Clover works himself into a tizzy against the tide of his instincts.
“Don’t wanna hurt you.”
“I know,” Qrow says again, and with Clover’s soft whimpers tickling his eardrums, his mind is made up. “I can take it.”
“Qrow—”
He reaches back to pet Clover’s ear with clumsy strokes. “C’mon, Cloves, take it, take me.”
In an instant, Clover’s rhythm regains confidence, then doubles its speed. Qrow barely has the sense to grip his own cock as Clover pounds into him. Skin meets skin, muffled by fur. The headboard squeaks and slams against the wall. A pillow tumbles off the bed and into the lamp, flashing light across the room before it flickers out. Each wild thrust jerks Qrow’s hand on his shaft, and in the dark, feverish sparks dance on his skin. He’s infected with Clover’s strange delirium, useless but to want.
“Qrow, please, please—hah—please, can I?” Clover slurs against Qrow’s pulse point. His arm pulls tight across Qrow’s midsection as he ruts desperately into Qrow. “Fuck, you feel s’good—want you ‘round my knot, please?”
Words are a distant thing but Clover’s been perfect, so Qrow tries his best. “You wanna—ah—you wanna come in me, puppy?”
“Please, Qrow.” Clover’s teeth sting at the flesh above his collarbone. “Please, please let me—wanna breed you full—”
“You wanna mark me?”
“Yeah—”
“Wanna make me your territory?”
A growl rips from Clover's chest—not a metaphorical growl, but the real snarl of a monster ready to tear its prey apart. It’s the easiest thing in the world for him to grasp Qrow by the hips, mount him in the tattered sheets, and bury himself home. Clover shoves his own face into the pillows as his knot pops snugly past Qrow’s rim; Qrow’s mouth falls open in surprise. Warmth courses through him, and he’s knocked over the edge before he’s truly expecting it.
He shakes apart in Clover’s arms, spasming around the all-encompassing press of Clover everywhere inside him. Above, Clover groans and rolls his hips, fucking his knot deeper into Qrow. He’s still coming, Qrow realizes distantly, his clawed hand cradling Qrow’s stomach like he can feel it filling. The thought has Qrow’s dick twitching uselessly, and another belated dribble of cum joins his mess on the destroyed mattress.
After so much noise, the silence that settles feels as exhausted as Qrow. Outside, fingers of snow flurries pry at the window, and the wind demands entrance, but the storm clouds have parted. Limbs lead-heavy in the haze of his bliss, Qrow turns his trembling hand over to admire the moonlight, a liquid, silver dream on his skin.
Clover emerges from the pillows with a juddering sigh. Sated, he sags against Qrow, nearly flattening him. The knot tugs, and Qrow cries out, oversensitive and stuffed.
“Shit,” says Clover. “Sorry, baby, I’m sorry. Here—”
Clover’s arms quake, but he carefully gathers Qrow against him and rolls back onto his side. Some of the pressure eases, and Clover chases the rest away with sloppy kisses on Qrow’s cheeks and jaw. Qrow relaxes back, settling into Clover’s lap. Both men groan as Clover’s knot throbs, and Qrow can’t stop himself from clenching down around Clover.
“F-fuck.” Qrow’s voice sounds broken to his own ears. He doesn’t have many other thoughts, so he says it again, trying to make his voice steadier. It does not work.
A tiny feather lands on his nose, and another on his shoulder. One of Qrow’s pillows bleeds white down, perforated in the shape of Clover’s jaw. Qrow stares at it for a few unintelligent seconds, skin still tingling where Clover’s teeth pricked.
“Was that supposed to be me?” Qrow asks, trying to sound like the prospect is not extremely hot. It, too, does not work.
“Necessary casualty,” says Clover. He sounds more lucid, less frenzied, though his flesh still burns against Qrow. “I know you said to mark you, but I wouldn’t without actually ask—”
“Yes.” Qrow says. “Absolutely, yeah, yes.”
Violent air puffs across Qrow’s shoulder, and Clover’s hips nudge impulsively forward. “Be careful talking like that,” he says. There’s a possessiveness to the words that sends a spiky shiver down to Qrow’s spent cock.
“Please don’t get me wrong,” Clover quickly adds. “I’m extremely grateful for your help. But that would mean something different to me.”
“Oh,” says Qrow haltingly. “Gotcha.” Then, quieter: “It—it’d still be a yes.”
Clover’s laugh lilts with joy. He cups Qrow’s cheek and pulls Qrow back to kiss him, tail whacking their tangled legs. Really, really cute as hell.
“Let’s start with a date,” Clover says when they separate.
“Little backwards,” Qrow teases. “Move in together, fuck, go for dinner.”
Clover winces, ears lowering. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wanted to do this right. I had a whole plan.”
“Well,” Qrow says, and purposefully this time, he squeezes around Clover, “you don’t see me complaining. So, new plan. Whenever you stop being—in me, you’re gonna carry me to the shower because I can’t move my legs. I think you put, like, a gallon of cum in me.”
“Surely not,” says Clover, amused. “Half-gallon, maybe.”
“And then this weekend,” Qrow announces, ignoring him, “you are buying me a new bed.”