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This isn’t the same as a warm coziness that might be found in a similar scene set in the comfort of a civilian bedroom, certainly, despite technically being a private residence of sorts. It’s far more like the strange sort of comfort that’s found when finally crawling into shelter after one has been caught in a storm. The very things you sought cover from still very much exist, and they hover just outside of the little bubble you’ve hidden away in, audible and even still very, very visible, but for now, just for now, they don’t touch you. You can even pretend, even for a short while, that they can’t.
This room is largely plain, with its light walls, its minimal, practical furniture. It’s modest, utilitarian, hardly cozy, or even all that soft, by any means, currently lit only by the glow of the television screen, projected up from its stand on the relatively small dresser, casting strikingly harsh light over the still, quiet form of the huntsman asleep in the soldier’s bed, and the soldier sat up and awake beside him, watching the television, idly, gently, combing his fingers through dark, feathery hair, mussed from sleep and the sex that had come before it.
When the news segment that he’s watching ends, the glow in the bedroom returning to its steady blue rather than the gradient of color that comes with changing visuals on an active program, Clover doesn’t turn the television off, but he turns his attention away from it, focusing instead on the man asleep in his bed beside him.
The blankets are only pulled up to about Qrow’s waist, revealing the bare skin of his chest and shoulders, healed from the bites and scratches and sucked-on bruises by now. All traces of the way the soldier had marked Qrow in the heat of passion, as he’d fucked almost desperately into him, faded from existence. The evidence of just how deeply he’d sunk perfect teeth into one of those shoulders as he’d trembled and held the smaller man tightly and spilled deep inside of him erased by the huntsman’s aura, leaving only those scattered scars behind. Long-healed marks from his years and years of fighting grimm, from beowolf claws and ursa teeth and nevermore feathers.
And, of course, that deep, discolored, gnarled slice along the right side of his ribs. The soldier had had his hand slapped away from it during their earlier tryst, Qrow quickly distracting him by wrapping his own hand around something else and burying his face in Clover’s neck as he’d used that grip to guide him where he wanted him most.
Now that the other is asleep, the scar exposed and unguarded, it’s only after a moment’s hesitation that Clover’s fingers reach out again to trace cautiously along the scar, finally making contact with the wounded flesh. Almost as if he knows , the huntsman flinches against the contact and turns onto his side in his sleep, putting his back to his bedfellow and curling in on himself almost like a wounded animal protecting its vulnerable belly from further attack.
It’s adorable.
The window fogs again, once again too much for him to see clearly, which one would not think to be a great feat given his less-than-perfect vision, and instead of wiping away the fog, this time he merely shifts to peer in from another angle. Long, well-sharpened claws tap against the glass as his fingertips settle against it.
The sounds he’s making through the panting and the drooling are obscene , hips twitching against his fingers and the cold metal of his stinger, pressed between his legs for a little extra friction as he grinds against it and his own hand. He can’t even recall what he’d been picturing doing to the object that’s currently caught his attention at first; the mental image has shifted several times. At one point, it was simply rutting against the huntsman’s body while he sleeps, then he’d moved onto shoving his stinger (or his organic tail, he’s not picky~) inside of the other, listening to him cry and scream from the agony of it, maybe even of the fear of being poisoned again as the tip of that stinger tears up his insides. He’s currently picturing having his way with the cooling, disemboweled corpse of Ironwood’s little attack dog while his favorite little bird could only watch.
His comm. line crackles with a loud, long sigh, then a tired voice very rudely interrupts his fantasizing. ::Are you about ready to come back for the night? I’ll be locking the door very shortly.::
“Oh, let me have my fun, doctor,” the scorpion coos, bringing his other hand up to his mouth and drawing his tongue over one of his fingers. Oh, that’s blood~ He must have scratched himself, his nails can be such a hazard. His tail slips from between his legs, and he idly flicks it as he speaks, as if to flick off any mess he’d made on it. “You spent all day spying on the general with your little cameras, why can’t I check in on our pretty little bird?”
::Are you trying to make me jealous? It isn’t working.::
Liar~
“You know…” He can’t help but giggle, though he keeps something of a pout in his voice as best he can. “I’m still soaked, doctor. That’s no good in this cold. You might have to take care of me when I get back~ Oh, but that shouldn’t be too hard for you, though. I know you’ve been listening~”
It’s hardly fair, he thinks, that the doctor should be able to watch his prey and do what he will with that -- and Tyrian knows what that is, certainly. As much as the good doctor, for all his near aristocratic propriety and decorum, tries to deny or at the very least hide his nature, his appetites couldn’t be more plain. It’s almost adorable when he tries, though.
::… come back before you’re seen.::
The line clicks and goes silent, and the hunter giggles to himself again. His tail raises again, the metal tip of his stinger scraping against the glass as it outlines the sleeping form of his prey.
Sweet dreams, little bird. I’ll be seeing you very soon .