#i hope this ended up making sense ndsh

[flightofaqrow]

🎲 [from Glynda? ^^]

kiss roulette ** accepting

39. a tentative kiss

qrow doesn't have to give so many reports in person. he doesn't. he can write a letter just fine, use code, encryption, whatever. not all of his words had to be the biggest secrets in the world.

but someone something always pulled him back to beacon any chance he got, anyway. being surrounded by familiar faces just felt good, for these moments he allowed himself, especially when the number of those in his life were falling lower and lower...

he lingers in the gardens, one long leg stretched out, in the slow-moving, inebriated way he usually spent these in-between times; plopped right on the ground, in the grass, with the gentle breeze of afternoon flowing through feathered, now-graying, hair. he watches Glynda over in the courtyard, whipping the newest batch of bumbling would-be heroes into shape.

he might be feeling his age these days, but that never got old.

she sees him there, an emerald side-eye through glasses, and seeks him out when it's all done, and he can't help but stare at her usual saunter, all-hips and clicking heels on the concrete - more familiar comforts. out of all the inner circle, Goodwitch was good at that - checking in. reaching out.

"hey, Glyn, good t'see you." he doesn't deny her, least of all when she sits right down beside him, with no concern for dirtying her skirt or leaves falling in her hair or breaking a nail or being seen as silly for not sitting on a bench, or any other petty nonsense someone might say or that Misfortune might bring; all of it would bounce right off of her self-esteem and knock magically right back into place.

...gorgeous.

qrow's used to that buzzing around as one of his background thoughts around the woman... blurring and further slurring words in the way they shoot the breeze like old friends.

that's another: friends.

another one of the words that blur.

when he leans back in a graveled laugh, and his arms open behind him, and she scoots in to the space in his shoulder, under his wing, and she smells so fucking good, like wildflowers and witchcraft, and he knows he doesn't. more like a bar rag, but that doesn't bother her...? not today, anyway.

gorgeous.

he must have done something good this time for Glynda to look at him like that, like she's glad to see him back. peering at him over plush, expectant lips like there's something only he can give her; here, now, like times before, but not always.

all he can do is let liquid courage take hold, suck up his pride and swallow his doubts, and lean in to bump a beak-nose against a pointed one; crimson eyes keep watch in want of her mouth, and when Glynda smiles, he can't help but lick a wet line over his own grin.

gorgeous.

gods, qrow wants to kiss her, but does he dare? so many kisses across so many calendars, and every good day, it makes his heart ache like he's eighteen and tasting her lip gloss for the first time all over again.

he pecks, ever so gently, pulling her top lip between his, hidden in the shade of Vale's summer trees and the shadow of beacon tower, asking the same old question once more.

you deserve better, but can we do it anyway...?

Glynda must just love to hold him hostage, captures his bottom lip in return, leans into him that much harder before he tries to pull away, no matter the scratch of unkempt stubble against her chin. she opens up in confident ways he doesn't know how to, though the parting of her lips offers space for him to figure it out, which absolutely baits his tongue to push forward - just one tentative touch, one affectionate curl around her teeth to tease, "...really good."

they shouldn't take this too far. not again.

not at all, let alone so out in the open.