RWBY Writings

The speed at which Ruby lept into action—and out of the room—was about on-par with what you expected. She was a young girl full of curiosity than a lake was full of water.

Since the girls and the rest of the group would likely be out for a while yet, you put the pot of soup onto a simmer. 

Qrow was probably hungry, having been out for so long, so you quickly put together a sandwich to take to him. With footsteps padding gently on the hardwood floor, you step down the hall towards the room where he’d been set up, and notice that the door was slightly ajar already. It opens with the gentlest push of an elbow.

As you step inside, Qrow is sitting up on the edge of the bed, and face between his hands. He looks a bit tired, but far better than he had when you’d brought him inl; the wounds seem healed and he’s conscious, so that’s a relief in its own right.

Qrow’s attention turns to your presence as you enter.

“A little birdy told me you were finally awake,” you say, and gently raise the plate for emphasis. “-and I brought you something to put on your stomach. Must be starving.”

“I dunno,” he says, letting his eyes drift lazily around the room, as if taking it in truly for the first time. “I could probably get a few more hours of beauty sleep.”

“You’re not allowed to sleep again until you eat something.” You take a few steps into the room to set the plate down onto the bedside table, looking pointedly at the man as you do. “I put a lot of work into that.”

“Into a sandwich?”

Maybe it’s his tone, or maybe it’s the way he quirks both a corner of his lips and his brow in a teasing that seems to unravel you to the very core. It makes you feel too flustered all the same and hope that there’s at least a little mercy to keep Qrow from catching the gentle glint of embarrassment as heat fills your cheeks.

“Well, yeah,” you say, arms crossing and eyes suddenly finding an interest in the doorway on the other side of the room. “I’ve been doing a lot of cooking since we got here—I can only eat dried meat so many times—and. Well. I mean.“

You can’t help but feel how hot your cheeks are, or how your heartbeat gets a little weird. Too fast. “-... I might have been worried about you too.”

Qrow hums.

“Yeah,” he finally says, as if content. “Ruby told me you were.”

Those gentle words fill the air for at least a minute before your brain seems to catch up to the rest of it. If you thought your face felt hot before, it feels like raw fire now, a blazing sun with thoughts such a whirlwind that you nearly miss the off-hand comment Qrow makes while he finally stands up on his wobbly feet and stretches.

“I need a drink,” he says offhandedly. “If I’ve been out cold for that long, I have some catching up to do.”

You could have stopped him. He looked hearty and hale yes, but it didn’t diminish the fact that you weren’t eager to have him out of your sight. But despite yourself and the sense of concern that twirled in the back of your mind, you couldn’t deny how much you’d missed him for all the day’s he’d been out cold. 

So you sigh and shrug with some level of theatrical drama and say, “If you’re determined to get yourself into trouble the moment you’re conscious, then I’ll go with you.”

You wonder for a moment if he might argue with your presence, but the man hardly seems to care. He steps past you. Your shoulders brush, and before anxious thoughts can take hold of both moment and mind, one of Qrow’s hands settles on your arm. Fingers wrapping, gripping, and then he’s ever so gently tugging you beside him.

Somewhere between leaving the house and arriving at one of the nearest bars, Qrow’s hand had slipped down from where it held your arm. Fingertips brushing over the inside of your wrist, the backside of your hand, briefly pressing into the empty spots between fingers where his would surely fit within…

But it doesn’t stray farther than that. You realize only upon stepping through the front door that you’d been holding your breath and try to make the exhale sound natural when the gentle warmth and noise of patrons fill the air around the two of you instead. 

Even as his hand falls away, you can still sense Qrow stiffen for a moment.

“You alright?”

You nod, hoping to avoid his curiosity by hurrying towards the stairs up to the second floor of the bar, overlooking the ground floor below. It helps that he isn’t able to catch the look on your face, or Qrow might have immediately sensed that something was off—but you just couldn’t shake the feeling of his fingers brushing against your skin, nor the way it made your belly twist and your heartbeat quicken.

You found one empty table among several on the second, open floor of the bar, and that was nice enough. Qrow seemed to feel the same, as he said nothing amiss while taking the open seat opposite of you, his eyes only briefly glancing down at the bustle of people and servers below and over the railing separating your table from the edge of the floor..

Your lips part for the words pushing up behind them, but the quick presence of a young-looking serving boy interrupts them and you both.

“Hello!” he says, far too cheerful. “Is there something I can get for the two of you?”

“Whiskey,” Qrow says automatically.

“Woah,” you wave a hand towards the man across from you, even as the serving boy writes it down on a small pad of paper. “You might have healed enough to be on your feet again, you can’t immediately start drinking the hard stuff.”

Qrow lifts a brow, and you meet his expression with a hard one of your own. Stubborn and unrelenting. 

The hunter meets your gaze for what must be only a few seconds, and finally sighs, rolling his eyes and yielding with a half-amused correction, “You heard the lady. Gimme uh… whatever the bartender suggests. But make sure it still has alcohol in it somewhere .”

The server nods and turns his too-bright eyes towards you, “And anything for you, missus?”

Attention still buried in your thoughts rather than the question being asked, you shake your head and watch as the young man writes something down on his pad of paper and then quickly moves away and down towards the bar—leaving you and Qrow alone. Though there were several others socializing on the floor below, the noise was distant and dull, making it even more obvious when your partner had said nothing after ordering. 

Mostly because he seemed to be too busy staring at you. It wasn’t terribly off-putting to turn your eyes back to Qrow and find him eyeing you suspiciously, given that he had a penchant for being odd (and given he had just woken up from being unconscious for nearly a week, he had the right to be a little odd). Still, your brows knitted above your eyes in confusion, to which he leaned forward and rested his chin over his clasped hands.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Your confusion only grew stronger.

“Which was?”

Qrow’s eyes narrowed. Not in anger—you knew the look that fell over his face when he was legitimately annoyed—but in something else. Something you couldn’t quite read. Concern? No, it was more than that, though you didn’t have time to think all that deeply about his expression when he repeated the simple, but flustering question.

“Are you alright?”

It took a few seconds, and a few blinks, for your mind to filter the words properly. Even after that, the confusion never quite went away, leaving your brows knitted tight and your lips pressed together.

“Of course,” you said, perhaps a little too quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Just then you felt a presence step up to your table and silence any follow-up questions from Qrow, who merely hummed in thanks as the young man set a glass of dark amber-colored liquid down on the table in front of him. Qrow nodded in thanks, and the server was gone once again, leaving your eyes to settle gratefully on anything that wasn’t the huntsman’s face.

The glass was short, but wide, with several clear ice cubes floating atop the drink. Maybe if you stared  hard enough, perhaps faked a sense of focus, Qrow wouldn’t continue down his line of questioning. Maybe he wouldn’t start asking about how you worried over him, fretted and paced and waited—it got so bad, in fact, that one of the others had even asked if you and Qrow were together (romantically).

Of course you had said no. Because you weren’t. At all. 

(Even though you wanted him to think of you like that)

And even though Qrow was finally on his feet and in as good of health as any huntsman can be after a near-death poisoning, it seemed as if your heart and mind had not quite gotten the memo yet.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, just loud enough for you to hear over the sound of your beating heart. “I should be asking you that question, y’know.”

Does he know how you felt? What you did? When you had excused yourself away from the group several weeks back while traveling through the forest, thoughts and emotions almost unbearable in how he made you want him so damn much? Did he know that you touched yourself to the thought of him pressed against you, lips to your ear and hands to your hips and-

“You just seem stressed is all,” Qrow’s voice finally yanks you out of your thoughts. He sips at the drink in his hand and lets a sigh escape him. “...what’cha thinking ‘bout?”

‘How your lips would feel on mine.’

“Nothing.” The word almost comes too quickly as an answer, a forceful sentiment that hopes to simply avoid the topic altogether, if only because you know you’d hardly hold up to any prolonged curiosity pressing against your mental defenses. “...maybe a little about that drink in your hand and what they ended up giving you.”

“This?” Qrow gently shakes the drink for emphasis; the liquid sloshes around within its clear confines. “It’s just aged cider. I’ve heard Mistral has some good orchards, but never been able t’taste their stuff before. Not bad.”

He takes a sip, and you have to try and not let your gaze linger on him. Instead, you chance a look down towards the bar—several more tables are full of patrons all clamoring for the attention of the few working servers. But your focus must have fallen just so beyond pretend, because suddenly you find the selfsame glass of cider pushed in front of you.

“Give it a sip,” Qrow encourages. “I promise it's not gonna hurt you.”

The look you give him is cursory, a mix of unsure and shy, before your gaze falls to the drink in front of you. You bring the glass to your lips with a gentle motion, and indulge in a taste just as he’d requested—the taste of cider is warm and sweet as it washes across your tongue, with barely a hint of an alcoholic aftertaste. 

Surprisingly good. You find yourself genuinely lost in thought of the cider, watching it swirl as you shift the glass in your hand—so much so that Qrow’s attention is lost on you until you remember to raise your eyes back up to find him watching, chin once more leaning on his folded hands.

“You can have the rest if y’want,” he says, voice warm and casual. “It’s good, but I like my stuff with a little more punch to it.”

It seems oddly intimate, given the atmosphere and especially the way Qrow seems to look at you.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

But of course the glass veil is quick to shatter, leaving your mind a bit dumbfounded.

“Excuse me?” You blink, asking not because you feel offended, but because you weren’t sure if he’d asked what your mind had filtered.

“Or girlfriend,” Qrow looks sheepish for only a moment, clearing his throat and letting his eyes finally fall too-casually towards the bar over the railing. “I mean, I’ve never heard you talk about a partner with all the traveling we’ve been doing. Just curious is all.” 

Though it’s difficult, you somehow manage to keep your lips from pressing into a tight line and your eyes from instinctively looking elsewhere.

“I... don’t have anyone romantically in my life.” Your fingers play and trace against the shape of the glass still in your possession. Caution in your veins; this is a dangerous topic. “I mean, I’m not dating him or anything. Er-” suddenly, your mouth feels dry. “-I’m not dating anybody. At all.. Just... Nobody back home for me to worry about. No siree.”

If Qrow heard the slip of your tongue, he doesn’t comment on it. He simply hums and lets one of his hands drop palm-down on the surface of the table, and slowly his fingers begin to drum over its surface. 

A minute passes peacefully and silently. As silently as it can really, considering the bustle below your table, though you appreciate the noise filling the air as something of ambience, keeping the moment from getting too awkward. 

But then Qrow opens his mouth, and again , the moment shatters.

“Who’s the guy you’re interested in?”

Your eyes shoot up to stare at him, and Qrow continues to talk through the space where you might try to come up with a bumbling accusation of why he’s asking in the first place—a space which you can’t seem to find the words to begin with.

“I mean, you obviously seem t’feel something for him. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the look on your face sometimes-” Qrow tilts his head to the side slightly, tone of voice teasing and light. “Am I right?”

“No.” The words twist in your head and stomach alike, the pinpoint accuracy getting far too close to the truth for you to feel comfortable with it. But still, you can’t lie very well when the object of such affection is the same one asking you about it. Your stomach twists and your words begin to falter, “If I have feelings for someone, that’s entirely my business.”

“So I am right.”

“Qrow,” the name spills from your lips in warning, but the man seems to ignore it entirely, merely leaning his head to the other side and drumming his fingers even harder on the table.

He quirks a brow. As he looks at you, there’s a hint of mischief somewhere in his eyes. It’s the kind that swiftly predates the actions of a very clever—and equally foolish—man.

“Is it me?”

“And what makes you think that ?”

You’d almost feel proud of how you kept your voice even, if there wasn’t such a dull, loud thudding in your ears and chest. Rhythmic. Racing.

“A little birdie might have told me something,” Qrow mimics the phrase you had used not less than an hour before. “Something you might have done a couple weeks ago after sneaking out of camp.”

Oh no.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You pick up the glass to look at more than sip from, finding a sudden and invested interest in how the melting ice cubes are floating within the cider. 

“Well, the little birdie was more of a little crow,” the man continues, urging your heartbeat to quicken even more. ( He couldn’t have seen you, that’s impossible) “-and that little crow might have caught you doing some things. Naughty things.-” ( This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening- ) “-and moaning my name. A lot.”

You feel frozen to the spot, heartbeat suddenly completely still from where it had practically been humming within your chest. Qrow stares at you for a few seconds, watching your face, and then suddenly forces a laugh from his lips and turns his gaze away from you, acting as if it was some huge joke.

“Actually, y'know, maybe that cider was a little stronger than I thought. Forget I said anythi-”

He doesn’t have a chance to finish the sentence. Your brain, which had been going absolutely haywire for the last ten minutes, finally came to a conclusion about what to do about the situation, and it had left you with an empty glass in-hand and Qrow covered with the remains of what had originally his drink.

There wasn’t very much left, but it was certainly enough to leave cider dripping down his chin and soaking the front of his shirt and a look of complete surprise painted over his face. 

And of course you what any reasonable person would upon finding themselves in such a precarious situation deserving of a level head and sound response: 

You bolt.

Out from the table, down the stairs, and out the bar entirely, ignoring the passing glances of other patrons and the dull sound of Qrow calling out behind you.

Honestly, you only barely make it out the entrance and out to the street before your thoughts catch up. Panic is overshadowed only by a burning sense of embarrassment at what you had done; you can never show your face to Qrow again (for a plethora of reasons, as it seems) and you will have to go into hiding under a new name to make sure that you never have to face the consequences of you not only tossing a drink on him, but also because he wound up eavesdropping on something you thought would never ever come to light to another living thing.

But of course, Qrow is nearly as quick. You barely have time to start considering your situation in rapid terror before his hand presses over your shoulder, firm enough that even the shock of his presence isn’t enough to pull you away from him.

“Fuck, just—just slow down for a moment,” the words seem to escape the man in sputtered coughs. When you turn around with the full intention of probably saying something you’d almost regret and go running off into the empty Mistral night, the sight of him makes the words go still behind your tongue.

The embarrassment is still hot in your stomach and over your cheeks, and that alone pushes the flurry of thoughts forward. “Why would you tell me any of that? Listen I’m-” you shut your eyes tight to avoid meeting Qrow’s gaze when he seems to have enough energy to stand up. “-I’m sorry about that. It was wrong and I’m sorry that I’ve made you feel uncomfortable, we can pretend that it never happened and-”

“I like you.”

…

“ What? ”

“I like you,” Qrow repeated, expression devoid of any perceived teasing that had been there just a short while before. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable or anything, I was just—I didn’t know how to bring it up without being weird-”

“So you do it in the middle of a bar after asking me if I’m dating anyone?”

Qrow purses his lips and glances away for a moment. And then the two of you are just… standing there. Together.

Qrow’s fingers slips from your shoulder, arm and hand before slowly—purposefully—taking yours into his own. A familiar realization washes over you as fingers interlace; Qrow’s fingers do fit perfectly between your own. And his hand is warm, just large enough to encompass yours, and comfortable to hold despite the calluses at his thumb and fingertips from the years of combat.

He doesn’t say anything, but the gesture and intimacy of the moment speaks volumes beyond what you think he could ever try to come up with himself. At a glance to his half-hidden face, you find that he seems at an actual loss for proper words. His lips open for a moment, then close, and his eyebrows knit tightly above his eyes in a moment of aggravation.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters lowly, half-answering your question and accusation not even a minute before.

“Obviously.”

He sighs, clasping your hand even tighter in his. “Very funny,” his eyes turn at last to look into yours properly. “I can’t normally do this. Relationships. They’re always just a prolonged mess.”

Can’t. The choice of word sticks out in your mind. You’d almost expect someone so try and explain ‘I don’t normally do this’ or something of the same flavor, but the way he worded it sounds almost like…

“It’s your semblance.”

It doesn’t take more than a few moments to put the pieces together. Qrow’s ability is hardly a secret, but it’s one he doesn’t speak at-length about, and hardly as anything more than an off-hand joke at his own expense or for comedic relief in a tense moment. Truthfully, you’d never even thought about how it might affect his relationships with other people—to a degree, you simply assumed it would fall under the same rug as any other baggage people often carried with them.

Qrow’s silent, somber expression is all the answer you need to suddenly feel your heart twist.

You raise your free hand up and press gentle fingertips to the curve of his cheek. Though the touch was hardly sudden, he jerks with all the same surprise, eyes instantly darting to look at you, face half-turning into your hand as if trying to cipher what it was against his cheek. 

Still, he doesn’t step away. You let your hand press against the side of his face until your palm is almost cupping his cheek.

And you smile. Your heart suddenly unfurls when the moment settles beyond shock and surprise and into something permanent, something you can understand, trust, and stand firmly upon. 

“I like you too,” you whisper. “And you’re allowed to be with people you love, regardless of your semblance.”

Qrow’s lips part even before you finish the sentence, as if his rejection is rehearsed, “It could get you hurt, or worse -”

“And so can everything else in this world. Bad connections, bad decisions, bad situations in general. It’s just one more thing about you, Qrow. Something I’m willing to accept along with the rest of you and your flaws, and deal with as things happen. I still… love you.”

He stares at you. Hard. Qrow looks as if he’s trying to see into you, to pick apart your thoughts and words as if there’s a lie hidden within them. It makes you wonder if he’d ever felt this way for someone before; and if he did, how had they reacted to him? Had they actually gotten hurt?

Your wondering doesn’t get to last for long, because you physically see as much as hear Qrow take in a deep breath, all the while careful not to let his gaze fall from yours. Debating. Ruminating. You can see the conflict within start to gnaw and cut into the line of his firmly-pressed lips, tugging at the corners until you’re not quite sure if he’s happy or concerned with your response.

“If it helps, you’ve already dug your own grave,” you say toyingly, taking a step forward and closing in on the space between you both. “-by telling me you have feelings. So now I can’t get embarrassed about doing this.”

“Doing what?” 

There’s no hesitation. The feelings of fear and anxiety from but minutes before have all but melted away into confidence and stubborn willpower, if only from knowing how he genuinely felt for you—how he wants you like you want him. 

Kissing him felt good. Spontaneous even. He’s caught a bit too off-guard to do much in response, but it nevertheless leaves your heart racing and your thoughts a whirlwind of activity. Suddenly every little detail of the moment feels committed to memory in a way you never thought could be; the stillness of the night air, the loneliness of the empty street, the way Qrow’s body feels pressed against yours, or how genuinely soft his lips feel as they meet, and how his eyes sparkle like gems in the moonlight as you let your face pull away from his.

You don’t realize that you’ve held your breath until he quickly returns the motion with a passionate embrace, stealing away what little air is left in your lungs. The loss of interlaced fingers are quickly smothered by the pressure of Qrow’s arms wrapping around  you, pulling you close and tight into his chest.

“Stupid,” he murmurs against your lips, syllables half-muted with his mouth unable to break from yours. “Idiot. Foolish. Gonna get hurt.”

You’re not sure if he’s talking about you or himself, but the answer hardly matters to the way your heart bleeds with such a sense of yearning that it almost hurts . From the gentle sting of teeth scraping over lips to the bone-chilling ache of desire, it doesn’t take an expert to catch on to where the moment is leading; it’s as obvious as a gilded straightaway.

You can barely pull your face back enough to whisper his name in what must be a sense of urgency or concern (you’re not sure which is stronger at this point), but Qrow seems to have already thought about and made the decision for you. With as much warning as he’d given you for the kiss (none), the man takes your hand and starts to tug you alongside him at a pace just quick enough that it’s hardly a walk. 

It’s a wordless exchange of thoughts and realizations, and you haven’t the slightest desire to pull your hand from his once you realize that Qrow is hurriedly leading you back to the house.

Through the front door. Past the entrance hall, then down the left corridor to the last door—but you certainly didn’t care all that much about where he’s taking you as much as the fact that there’s a bed at the end of it. 

“You said Ruby and the others won’t be back ‘till-”

“Until a bit after sundown,” you murmur, desperate not to let go of Qrow’s hand, but to feel his body against yours as quickly as possible. “Though I know they’ll get in enough trouble to keep them out later than that.”

“Hm,” Qrow hums, pulling you against him and pressing his mouth to the crook of your neck and shoulder. His breath feels warm against your skin. “I think that’s enough time to get into some trouble ourselves.”

Given no time to respond, the man’s hands are suddenly on your body with the obvious goal of relieving you of your clothes. There aren’t many layers, considering you didn’t need to worry about wearing your combat armor, so it’s all too easy for you to let him start slowly working off your shirt and bra. The motion is quick, pulling it all over your head and tossing it haphazardly behind his shoulder with but a soft huff of cloth hitting the floor beyond the bedside.

You shift your weight and reach your hands towards his chest to try and reciprocate the divesting of clothes, but Qrow stops you with his mouth at your throat and a growl rumbling through his lips.

“Not so fast,” his voice shivers against your skin. “You got to have your fun back in the woods—I think it’s only fair you let me have a turn for a bit.”

“But you’re-”

“-healed and enough of an adult to make my own decisions,” he interjects. Qrow clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, though it’s the sudden grasp of a hand over the curve of your ass that really makes the words leave you in a sharp gasp. 

He smiles against your throat, and his lips kiss messily down the front of your collarbone, the top of your sternum. As his lips delicately work their way towards the swell of a breast, you feel them rumble against your skin once more. 

“Bedrest is good and all,” he says, face tilting up so that your eyes meet, and his gaze seems to enthrall you like a spell. “-but I’ll take you as my medicine any damn day. So damn beautiful. So fuckin’ sexy.”

Before you even have the moment to realize that your heart is skipping several beats, Qrow is already winding his arms back around your waist and pulling you with him towards the bed. The room is dark, with only the moonlight gently falling from the far window down across the bed sheets, but you can see the gentle mischief in his expression with utmost clarity.

You remember to breathe around the same moment that he tumbles back onto the rumpled sheets, pulling you on top of him. It doesn’t take long before his lips find the swell of a breast. He kisses across the skin and takes a nipple gently between his teeth, suckling just enough that the pressure and wet heat of his mouth starts to make your thoughts go a little hazy with desire and perhaps a fair amount of annoyance. Annoyance at the fact that he is still fully-clothed, and you still have on too many layers from the waist-down.

“Qrow,” you’re barely able to get the sound of his name out in one succinct syllable with how his tongue starts to trace around your nipple. “Too many clothes.”

You are largely referring to his own, and go so far as to start reaching down towards him again to try and undo the fasteners at the front of his shirt, but the man stops you for the second time with a more-than-firm grip over your backside. Another gasp escapes your lips and draws your body instinctively taut, but not enough to fully dissuade your fingers from curling into the fabric of his shirt and start to tug harder with every suckle of his lips around your breast.

His hips roll up against yours—there’s a discernable shape forming between his legs, growing firmer with every moment and jutting stubbornly enough against the inside of your thigh. The notion of Qrow’s equally-genuine arousal for you seems to fuel the stubborn need to unclothe him, though by the time you’ve seem to figure out how to start undo the top button he’s decided that more urgent forms of distraction are required; flipping the two of you over with barely an indication of effort, he wedges you perfectly between the soft give of the mattress below and the firm heat of his body above.

Having already relinquished the attention upon your chest, the man presses his lips to the side of your cheek and allows a low purr to roll into your ear, “Let's get the rest of these off of you.”

For as much as you want to argue—he is definitely not letting any attention fall on him and his needs—the man’s way of leaving you yearning with so much as a husky whisper is almost infuriating in its power. The way he makes your stomach twist as his hands find the hem of your pants, tugging them and your underwear down with uncaring insistence; it almost makes you wonder if this is nothing more than a vivid dream, one of your rampant fantasies come to a lively simulacrum. 

But there’s no way even a dream, vivid or not, can make you feel this good.

If there’s one thing you have always known about Qrow, it’s that he’s stubborn and impulsive, inclined to explain his actions after the fact rather than before. It is for this reason alone that you are both surprised and not at all when he doesn’t simply settle himself between your open, naked legs and grind his hips against yours (even though you sorely want him to) but instead quickly ducks his head down until his lips are kissing a straight line over your sternum, between your breasts, upper stomach, and-

Suddenly his face is between your thighs and his breath—so warm—falls over your cunt, which has been long-aching for the attention he’d so lovingly given the top-half of you just moments prior. In a motion too quick to realize anything in between his warm breath to his hot tongue, Qrow spreads your labia with one hand and pushes his face forward against you, letting his tongue dart between dripping wet folds.

When his name leaves your lips, the sound has devolved into nothing but a strained syllable that barely has a beginning and end. It’s a broken sound. But to Qrow, it’s beautiful, and only the beginning to the curiosity he holds for all the various noises he can draw from you.

“Q-Q...rah…..oh…” just noises from your lips, moans with a vague sense of purpose, driven to pieces by the way he seems to find and hone-in on just the right pattern and speed at which to dance his tongue into your pulsing cunt. 

It’s so much more than your own fingers. So good . You had wondered what his mouth would feel like, but you did not for a moment, not even in those thick with desire such a short time ago in the forest, did you think he would be this good at pulling you apart at the seams

It doesn’t take very long before you feel yourself pressing towards that blissful crest, nor for your hands to reach down and at last to grab something of the man that he doesn’t immediately shy away from. Fingers tangle into his dark hair. Hard. Holding on for some semblance of dear life. Your hips start to rock up, grinding into Qrow’s mouth eagerly when you realize he’s not using his hands to hold your body down in any way. If anything, he’s encouraging you into the motion, pressing his palms against the curve of your ass and gripping his fingers needily into sensitive skin, not hard enough to hurt, but certainly hard enough for it to echo off the growing pleasure twisting up between your thighs more with every breath.

“Qr-o-oh-” his name drips like honey from your parted lips. “Y-yes. Mouth. Harder. So cl-oh-ose.”

The words fall over the man with the power of a command. You can feel him hear it, feel him shift, his face pressing even harder against your sex and his tongue pushing even deeper within you and stirring up so many nerves that your thoughts start to fall out from your mind before the rest of you does. 

“Good girl,” Qrow praises, voice muffled against you but clear enough to understand. “Such a good girl.” It’s the final sensation, like a key, unlocking the door that sends you careening over the edge of climax.

Heat and bliss, euphoria and pleasure—it all comes crashing like a wave against an ocean cliffside starting from the pit of your stomach and blooming like a carnal flower all the way through your body. 

And it’s gone in the span of a breath, fleeting and quick and suddenly your lungs ache and your body feels limp. Qrow gently lifts his head up despite the fact that your fingers are still half-tangled in his hair, and glances up at you with a gentle look in his eyes.

“I get the feelin’ that was pretty good?”

“I dunno,” you pant, unlocking your legs from Qrow’s shoulders and hands from his messied hair. Though momentarily tired in the afterglow of such a quick, but wonderful orgasm, your sense of jesting is barely touched. “You might have to do it again, just to make sure the first one wasn’t a fluke.”

Qrow doesn’t miss a beat of time after the last word leaves your mouth before he’s trying to settle his face between your legs again. “Alright,” he says nonchalantly, despite the face that his lips and chin are dripping wet with your arousal. “I can run a few more test-runs down here if you want.”

“Oh no, no I-”

You have to push your hand against his face to stop him from moving any closer; while you had been half-joking about it, you knew he wasn’t. And there wasn’t exactly a lot of time available for the two of you to consummate the newfound feelings that both of you seem to share—there was something else you wanted far more from Qrow than his mouth.

You watch the gentle glimmer of red eyes watch you from between your fingers. A smile pulls over your lips and you explain, “I want you to feel good too this time.”

Qrow pulls back, sitting on his knees and still so painfully clothed despite the obvious tent at the front of his pants. 

“I-” the words are caught in his throat for a moment as he looks away in something you are quick to realize is embarrassment. “I’ve never…”

A moment passes silently before you realize what he means.

“You mean you’ve never... y’know?”

“No! I mean, I’ve done that . Just. Not with any… attachments? Strings? I’m uh, usually drunk when it happens, and it’s not like I’ve done it a lot either.”

You blink, feeling your eyebrows furrow above your eyes in a natural sense of confusion.

“Just to be clear, I’m talking about penetrative sex.”

Qrow’s eyes finally look at you again. “So am I,” he says, sounding serious where he’d been sheepish in almost the same breath. “I just… Look, usually when I fuck someone, I don’t see them when I wake up in the morning. Don’t usually care to learn their name, or history or-....or…”

He stops speaking only when you reach forward and press a gentle hand to the center of his chest. You swear you can feel a racing heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“Qrow,” you murmur. “I love you.”

The words are simple. Concise. But you mean them with all the emotion in the world ten times over, hoping desperately that Qrow can see such when you look up to meet his pensive gaze. You can only guess at the thoughts swimming in the back of his mind, at all the times he must have thought about the things most people saw as little more than simple assurances in life: finding friends you care about, lovers you trust, a sense of belonging and comfort in being around other people.

But this is new to him. How many times has he tried to get close to someone before learning the extent of what his semblance is capable of? How many times had he tried to love someone despite it before giving up? 

How many times had he looked at you and asked himself if he was willing to try again?

These aren’t questions with easy or short answers, but you find yourself willing to explore them with Qrow, if he would allow it—but at an appropriate time for such deep emotional exploration. Right now, provided he’s comfortable, you simply want to feel him. All of him, semblance be damned.

“I love you,” you repeat. “And nothing else matters because of that.”

Qrow takes a moment and purses his lips together.

“...I’ll be a bad-luck charm,” he murmurs, one hand hovering near where the top-most button is on his shirt.

“Then you’ll be my bad-luck charm,” you correct, leaning up enough so that you can bat his hand away and start unbuttoning his shirt yourself ( finally ). “And who’s to say I won’t bring a little trouble into your life too, huh? You don’t know what kind of baggage I have with me. Maybe I’ve got an assassin trailing me since I was like, 15.”

“An assassin?”

“Yup,” you’re down to the third and then fourth button, revealing the bare skin of Qrow’s chest beneath where he wasn’t already bandaged up. At least you can tell he hadn’t re-opened any wounds and is healing well. “Let's call him Greg. You see, I’m a runaway princess and have forsaken my claim to the throne, but my resentful uncle is sure to see me dead so his son can be the next to rule… or something like that.”

Qrow chuckles at that, and the sound makes your heart sing and your hands fumble over the last button. 

“I have a feeling that might be a slight fib,” Qrow murmurs, letting you push the cloth off and over his shoulders. “But I can believe the princess part. Y’too lovely to be anything less than royalty.” 

The smooth words make heat bloom across your cheeks, and he chuckles even louder when you decide that the window off the far wall suddenly looks very interesting to look at—anywhere but his face, in that moment, because you’re already in love with the man to the point of genuine madness. You don’t need him being charming and sweet and making those feelings all the worse.

But somewhere between the moment you look away and the moment you look back, your lover has divulged himself of the rest of his clothes.

And you stare. Take it in. Just a little bit. 

Okay, perhaps more than a little bit.

It’s not hard to realize the fact that Qrow’s form is honed for physical combat. His body is lithe, shoulders broad, arms thick and chest dense with all the carefully-toned muscle he’d need to carry his weapon, harbinger, let alone use it expertly in the way you’ve seen him do time and time again. Though he had been loose-lipped to call you beautiful, you’d probably be just as forthright to use the same word to describe him. 

And then, just a bit lower than that, something else captures your avid attention. But by that point you don’t let your idle stare linger—hunger bubbles up too vigorously within your mind to simply sit there and do nothing. So you move, shifting onto your knees and crawling until you’re close enough to push your bare chest to Qrow’s own and vaguely feel the tip of his cock poking against your stomach.

“So,” you whisper, trying your best to mimic the low huskiness that Qrow manages all-too easily. “You saw me back in the woods.”

“I did,” the man murmurs in kind, arching a brow curiously before letting his face dip and press to the side of your throat. “I saw a lot of you, but I heard a lot more.”

“I never took you to be such a voyeur.”

Qrow laughs against your skin. “Baby-” the petname sends a shiver down your spine. “-for you, I’ll be anything you want. I just wanna see your body shake and hear you moan my name over and over again.”

A smile starts to creep onto your lips as your head tilts to the side almost instinctively, giving the man plenty of room to kiss and nibble over your pulse.

“Well, here I am,” you bring one hand between the two of you, and let one fingertips gently, barely, trace up the underside of Qrow’s cock. You can feel him shiver at the fleeting touch. “Don’t leave me waiting too long.”

The following moments are a flurry of motion and heat, within which you realize that the mattress is once against your back and your legs are spread apart with Qrow nestled between them as before, but this time he is as naked as you are and with an arousal that presses eagerly against your aching cunt.

Vulnerable. Open. You can feel the sentiment with every press of the man’s lips, every caress of his hands, every gentle grind of his hips down against your own. The way his cock rubs between your lips is tantalizing, toying against your clit with just enough roughness that it sets off something deep and carnal within you. Something lustful and hot and needy, something that makes your body move in tandem with his own just to feel more of his bare skin against your own.

“I want you,” you sigh. “Inside.”

Qrow simply moans into your throat, still nipping delicately at your flesh, though his hands seem to get the gist of the moment and slip down to grip each side of your hips to keep them still. Tamed. Enough at least for his body to slot against you, until the tip of his cock drags down over your heat and presses needily against your entrance.

The only warning you get before he’s sheathing himself inside is a dark, gravely noise that rumbles from deep in the man’s chest. It reverberates through his entire body into yours, from his lips to your throat to his hands on your hips. You can feel the passion in him as he moves, pressing his cock inch by throbbing inch inside of you, and your body all but welcomes the satisfying shape of him opening you up. It’s an itch being scratched, a coyish thought being remembered, a breath of air after feeling smothered. 

Though the last tendrils of your previous orgasm have long since faded away, the sensitivity—the ache of wanting more —is still perfectly obvious as it echoes within you. 

“Move,” you whisper.

And once more, your word is but a command, and Qrow is quick to heed it eagerly. His hips start to rut, finding a rhythm that pushes his cock so deep inside of you that you’re almost seeing stars. Distantly, you hear the bed start to creak. But your lover either doesn’t hear the noise or simply doesn’t care, because he finally finds a pace that makes you start to shake and your legs to wrap in a vice-grip around his waist, desperate to make sure he doesn’t move so much as an inch further away from you than is needed to keep fucking you like this.

More. More. More.

The creaking becomes another rhythm of the moment itself, burying into your mind as it soaks in all the sensations to the point that it’s nearly overstimulating. His hands, his lips, his cock, his everything.

And then, his voice.

“So beautiful. So perfect. I want you. Want you so much-”

It’s far from the overtly-sexy growl that you’ve heard pour from his lips like syrup, but only somewhat. While it isn’t deep and powerful in the way it makes you feel small, your brain registers it as vulnerable. Pleading, wanting, spilling like a waterfall in a way that can’t be slowed much less stopped.

“Mine,” he pants in your ear, hips eager and cock pressing deep. “Mine, mine. I want you all to myself. Don’t want to let you go-”

“Then don’t.”

It’s a strange moment of clarity between the haziness of your thoughts, but you manage enough to raise your hands up to the sides of Qrow’s face, to pull it up so that you can gaze deeply into his eyes and watch the emotions behind them as you speak just over the sound of shifting bedsheets and an increasingly-creaking bed.

“Don’t let me go. I’m yours,” the words break up as a sigh escapes from between your lips, a wave of aching pleasure twisting your stomach over itself. “I’m all yours, Qrow. I’m not going away.”

The flash of wet eyes is all you get before he’s pressing his lips to yours, aching and hungry, swallowing down any other words of encouragement you’d hoped to tell him. The kiss is wet and hot and messy, but it serves as purpose enough to connect the two of you when orgasm swiftly washes over both of your bodies. Qrow moans into your mouth as his hips start to stutter in their motion. Intense and hot, you all but hang on as best you can to your sense of sanity as euphoric pleasure moves from the pit of your belly out to the rest of your limbs.

So good, so warm, so safe. Qrow clutches you close until both of you have fallen deep into the afterglow, when sharp pleasure gives way into something softer, but longer-lasting. Something that seeps into your bones and leaves you with a sensation of comfort unlike anything you’ve felt before.

You want to muse about it for a spell, but your brain has turned to mush and all sense of thought alongside it. Barely enough energy to keep your eyes open, and less still to let Qrow shift until he’s laying beside you, legs tangled together and his arms tight around your body. Bare, sweat-slick skin starts to cool against the night air, but all you can focus on is the sound of his heartbeat and how it nearly matches with your own.

“So,” he finally says, sounding a little hoarse. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”

“Of course I will,” you murmur back. “And the morning after that, and the morning after that morning—repeat an uncountable number of times until we’re old and gray.”

Though you can’t see the man’s face, you feel the gentle twitch of his hands against your back, the stilting of his breath, the skip of his heartbeat.

You’re certain that he’s about to say something, but you here a sudden creaking from beneath you-

-and suddenly the legs of the bed frame snap beneath the mattress, jolting both of you enough as it falls onto the ground with a loud crash that echoes so loudly that it almost hurts your ears. Though it takes barely a second from start to finish, it takes several for you to register what’s happened.

And it’s hilarious. You suddenly find yourself muffling an uproarious laughter against Qrow’s chest as he muffles his own into your hair. There’s just something so silly about it, so abrupt that the only thing you can think to do is laugh about it.

“You’re right, I better keep a watch out for your semblance,” you chuckle. “Because if you don’t manage to destroy a few bed frames, it’s sure to take out a few.” 

And, for the first time in knowing the man—from colleague to friend and finally to lover—you can’t recall a time that you’ve ever looked up at him and have seen him smile quite as brightly as now, with not a single thought weighing him down or a worry dragging him away from the moment.

There were still a few weeks until the festival came, but there was no shortage of decorations around...well, everywhere. From dorms to doors, classrooms to courtyards, hallways and even the headmaster’s office itself--every inch of Beacon seemed loved-over with trinkets from all walks of life.

Including the hallway outside your team’s dorm room.

Especially the hall outside your team’s dorm room. Not a single inch of wall space was spared from being covered by some manner of decoration--colorful paper, pictures, icons and symbols aplenty, showing off the various background and religious heritage of all who lived in the handful of adjoined rooms. The Winter Festival was a Beacon-specific tradition, a celebration of the diversity of students that walked within it’s walls--and it was always nice to see everyone so connected with one another.

As you had been busy with studies over the past several days, you were the last one of your team to include your decorations in the hallway. They weren’t anything too amazing or eye-catching, especially when compared to the level of artistry and passion others tended to put in, but it was special all the same to you. A string of candle-shapes, cut out from paper and lovingly painted--you took the time to string them over the walls, as if leading one through the hall to the next section of the dorms.

For a while, you were alone in the hallway, humming to yourself as you pinned each candle shape to the flat surface. You took the extra care to make sure they were aligned correctly, focusing so hard that you didn’t hear when the door a few feet beside you open.

“I was wondering when you would start putting your decorations up,” A gentle voice rang, startling you enough that you nearly jumped back and pulled out the very same section of the string you’d just pinned into the wall.

A glance to the side put a young woman in your view. Tall, muscled and hardly a force most people wanted to mess with, plenty of people knew Yang Xiao Long; she was one of the best fighters of her year, an absolute up-and-coming fighter and-

most importantly, your girlfriend.

“Classes got really busy the last few weeks,” you say in soft explanation, feeling a bit of heat in your cheeks as you shyly glance away from her gaze. “Professor Oobleck assigned a paper and I needed to make sure I got a good grade on it--took way more research than I thought to verify some of my theories.”

“Believe me, I remember,” Yang’s words were gentle and teasing. “I also remember the three nights in a row that you fell asleep in the library.”

“Eh,” you move a hand to scratch sheepishly at the back of your head. “I’m uh, sorry again about that. I didn’t mean to worry you--I completely forgot to check my scroll and--”

Yang held up a hand, expression firm.

“No need to apologize for that,” She said, dropping the hand and shifting her weight so he wasn’t leaning against the door frame. “It wasn’t all that bad carrying you back to your room--you’re really cute when you sleep.”

More heat in your cheeks, a fluster to your words that you could barely find behind your lips. Yang let it go on for a few moments until, finally, she cut your gentle embarrassment short and reached out to grab your wrist.

“C’mere,” she said, gently pulling you into her room. “I wanna show you all the things I’ve put up.”

You followed her without much argument, feeling a smile pull at the corners of your lips as you step inside and kick the door shut behind you.

Almost instantly, you’re hit with the smell of peppermint. The air is warm, warmer than it was in the hall, and every breath is oddly refreshing despite it all. You let yourself fall against Yang’s body as her arms curl around you, her laughter more than sufficient to make up for her taking you away from your task but a moment before.

“As you can see, Ruby has been....well, busy.”

Yang gestured her hand to her younger sister’s side of the room where it was absolutely covered in red-and-white trinkets and decor. It seemed as if the young huntress had replaced nearly everything she had with something sharing the color-scheme, though peppermint-shaped garland hung from the sides of her bed. As your eyes shifted, you caught sight of a lit candle on the bedside table, the most-likely cause of the scent in the room.

You can’t help but giggle, arms wrapping in kind around the woman’s waist.

“I get the feeling she likes peppermint.”

Yang chuckles in her own wordless agreement, then gestures towards a huge bowl of peppermint candies sitting beside the flickering candle.

The rest of the room is mostly untouched, at least by the others of Yang’s team. Weiss’ bed was nothing but the unfortunate casualty of Ruby’s exuberant decorating, Blake’s was touched only by several small cards hanging from above it (in a script you weren’t familiar with, perhaps from home?) and then Yang’s bed lay equally undecorated, unless one counted the bits of plastic wrapping that must have come from eating the peppermint candies from before.

It caused a quirk of your brow to see.

“I thought you were going to show me all the decorating you’ve done,” you say, words losing much of their accusatory tone when you were otherwise busy with pressing your face into her shoulder.

After a moment, the woman merely laughs and carefully unwraps her arms from around you.

“It’s pretty spectacular,” she assures, expression leaning into mischief as she gently presses a palm to your cheek. “But you have to close your eyes first.”

“Close my eyes?”

“Yeah,” Yang says, taking a step back. “Look, just close them alright? No peaking, trust me on this.”

You stared at her for a few moments, caution turning into curious bemusement at what sort of trick or prank she had planned behind the not-so-innocent-sounding request. Nevertheless you shut your eyes and wait.

There’s a sound of shuffling, footsteps--Yang going through a drawer, perhaps-- and then footsteps approaching you once more. You feel one hand gently touch against your hip, but not a second one.

“You can open your eyes now,” she murmurs, voice almost too soft and gentle for what you were nearly convinced was a prank.

The world came back into view slowly. As you opened your eyes, you weren’t entirely sure what to expect from her, what mask or silly accessory would meet your gaze--but all there lay was Yang’s lavender eyes and gentle expression.

You looked at her with but a moment of confusion before you realized that she was holding something above you with her free hand. You glance upwards--

-and find a small bundle of mistletoe held between Yang’s fingers, crudely tied with a golden bow. The plant itself looked fake, most likely synthetic, but the gesture was all the same.

It took but only a moment for the realization to filter through you, leaving you with a smile as you look back to your partner’s face.

“Fake mistletoe?” Is all you could ask at first, words spoken between half-muted giggles.

“Hey, it’s not that easy to keep plants alive!” Yang looked only momentarily offended by the accusation, though her smile never dropped. “And besides, that means I can carry it around with me. For very important reasons.”

“You could have kissed me without it, you know.”

Yang let out an amused chuckle, then winked.

“Of course I know that,” she said. “But, tradition, yanno? I think it's pretty important stuff to kee-”

She didn’t even get the chance to finish her sentence before you had your arms thrown around her, pressing your lips together in a simple, gentle gesture of love. Yang almost immediately dropped her hand, arms encircling your waist as the two of you shared such a simple, warm moment of intimacy together. The kiss was soft and sweet and lovely, a reminder of all the things you loved about being able to spend the winter holidays with the people you cared about most. Yang was perfect, was warm, was everything you could want from someone--