touch (scintillas)
He cannot see anything, nor does he need to. Crimson shall look into the world for him, guide him, move him precisely where he needs to go. Crimson shall keep him safe.
He cannot speak. There is a part of him that realizes he can simply spit out cloth, freeing up his lungs to finally, properly breathe again. He doesn't, though, for he knows that his body does not need air to live. Not right now.
He cannot move, even if he wants to- hands bound, one ankle gripped tight, his other leg trembling as he balances a wobbly knee precariously upon the edge of soft mattress and drenched sheets; his body is too weak, too fluid, too pliant to shift bones and muscle and muster up even a modicum of strength to move away. Then again, why would he want to?
Unless if he is told to. Then, he shall move.
For now, however, he simply allows himself to focus on sensation so disorienting that his head spins, his body twitching and shivering as fingertips alternate, attacking him softly from all directions- brushing up, down, across his shoulders, down his back, below his navel, stroking his wrists and smoothing away the crease in his brow and tapping on saliva-drenched cloth which mutes the screams and whimpers spilling with abandon from his throat, all as he is filled without mercy.
The hand which twines into his hair, holding his head up and pulling, deliciously painful and bitter, drops down, fingers playing upon his neck, touch so feathery-light it almost feels like a different person in comparison to the merciless rutting, the sensation of being so empty, so full, flesh dripping and open, begging to be filled properly, forever and always; that hand trails across his shoulders, wrapping around, dipping into the hollow of his collarbone, the heat transferred from each graze almost enough to rival the burning, raw, sweat-slicked, lust-fueled movements of hips snapping against his own, rippling flesh never missing a beat in the dance he is led in. A groan slips from his lips, hoarse and wanton as those fingers disappear, leaving him shivering and cold despite the inevitable movement that is so intense he can barely form coherent thought.
Then, they return- wrapping around his neck, sliding above and below his collarbone. His ankle is dropped and he falls roughly forward, but that grip is strengthened by another hand, ten digits holding his torso in place whilst his lower body succumbs to heat and pleasure and boneless submission.
The voice he loves so dearly murmurs in his ear, husky and dripping with desire, enough to nearly push him over the edge. "Hold your breath."
He barely has enough time to gasp in a breath, forcing scant air into his lungs, before those fingers squeeze.
The world goes dark. He tightens, his entire body flushed with adrenaline and fear and bliss and pure, unequivocal trust as his Aura attempts to numb the pain in his throat, but nothing is enough; nothing can dull the way he can suddenly feel every nerve within his skin tingling, his puckered opening clamping down, swallowing greedily, forcing aching heat to swell firmly within him, hips trembling against his.
Fingers relax. He gasps. Hips resume. Another squeeze.
This pattern continues, again and again and again until he is broken, his entire form tumbling forward upon one heady breath, his entire world blacking out for one second before grey filters away at last, finally revealing pure, untouched pleasure ripping through his veins with such intensity that the cloth over his mouth is soaked.
He can feel liquid upon his face, shooting up to his chin, dripping down his neck. Even after it finishes, begins to cool against his burning skin, he remains there, twitching and shuddering.
His body is filled with heat, and he wishes for the nth time that he could feel every drop within him, too. Feeling the eventual withdraw, hearing the sigh of relief, tasting sweet, fresh air as cloth and leather are removed from hands, eyes, wrists… that is perfect, however, a taste of freedom entering his lungs and bringing him such peace that he almost faints.
The hands which scoop him up and carry him to the bathtub do so without his awareness. When Clover finally grows cognizant of his surroundings, he is surrounding by water, between muscled thighs and bony knees, his back flush against a lean, defined chest, fingers massaging his scalp. Clover closes his eyes again once he sees crimson staring back tenderly, for he knows they still play. The blindfold may be gone, but he does not need to see. Qrow will keep him safe.