BEAUTIFUL LIES [quinn]

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism is trying not to hurt. He's trying not to let this eat him from the inside out, but it's difficult. Every day there are monsters knocking at his door, pounding, trying to get in. He won't become the man he loved... he won't become that creature. Quinn had slipped into being something else entirely, something that Maksim might be afraid of if he didn't know better. He knew better. He knew Quinn. There was nothing out there that Makism was afraid of, or so he liked to think.

He'd loved and he'd lost. It was time to move on, he supposed. Makism couldn't do it. Quinn was his, he was Quinn's... that was what he was supposed to be. That was the reason he'd come back.

And then there was the fact that Kaden had written. He said he was coming. Makism's heart was breaking because of it. There was a reason the Russian man had pushed away the jarhead... he couldn't love the man the way he deserved. The green eyed boy had more honor, more respect for the man that had picked him up off his ass. It was to Kaden he couldn't do it... looked like Quinn had already done that to him.

He needed something to get all the aggression out of his system. Runinng hadn't been able to do it, which sucked, because that was usually the trick. The next best option? Throwing shit would look like the progression. It was cold out, but that wasn't anything he was worrying about any more. With his iPod blasting in his ears and flip flops squirming against the hardwood, he was able to step up to the lanes. It had been a long while and he'd never been any good, but there was something strikingly satisfying about throwing a heavy object as hard as he could.

click for clothes

[tarquin finley ellis]

Whatever type of monster that Quinn was becoming; it wasn't as bad as it could be yet. Quinn had teased over the things he could do, and yet it hadn't come to most of that yet. Mostly it was cold words and cutting responses; a lack of warmth in the things he did. The longer he was like this, the worse it was going to get. There had been times where Quinn had been weak, where it could have been different. But the time had passed for that, and Quinn had been trying to be avoidant enough to keep it that way. Makism was actually safer to be around in this. A cruel twist of fate perhaps, but it doesn't matter. Soon there wouldn't be anything left to save. None of that would even matter. Quinn would cross more lines. He'd already gone to extremes, and there was no turning back.

At least the pain was fading. The less he felt the better. Things were slipping away, and Quinn was settling into some sort of pattern with life that suited him well enough. He wasn't doing the right thing; whatever was left of his shady morals was vanishing. What he thought he would never do he was doing. Giving himself no limits, no walls or barriers, nothing to hold himself back. It was quite a freeing feeling, and he liked it. He wanted to hold onto that. Gone were the thoughts of trying to be a better person. No, he was going to be much, much worse. The nightmare was just begining. Quinn wasn't too worried over the day Makism decided to say no. When the time came, Quinn could fight to force what he wanted, and if he wasn't in the mood to do that... he'd simply find another body for his needs. It was that simple. And really fucked up.

Today he wasn't thinking about that sort of thing. He had no interest in sex of any kind today, or he would have taken advantage of Connor when the chance presented itself. Instead, Quinn chose to walk away from the winged male. He wanted none of that nonsense today and he'd said as much. If Quinn had to listen to the confused, mindless prattle he'd smack Connor around. The male could barely stand up as it was, so Quinn vetoed the idea and decided to do something productive today. So he'd gone to the gym for awhile, and on the way back he stopped in to the arcade and bowling ally. Might as well give it a look around. He used to have a thing for video games and such when he was younger. Course he use to break the things in a temper, too. However, when Quinn did arrive and start looking around, he noticed someone. Makism. Bowling away to... relieve stress, perhaps? Didn't matter. Quinn strolled over, slipping his arms around the man from behind. "Are you having fun?" The words were low and even. Nothing moody about Quinn just now

clothes

[makism vandik tarasov]

The nightmare was just beginning and Makism had fallen down the rabbit hole. It was strange and sad and starting to eat him alive. The creature had been driven sick to his stomach as of late, and he hadn’t been bothering to eat. There were far more interesting things to be doing… when he was eating, his mind was free to roam. Makism knew that it was best not let his mind roam. It was in wandering thoughts that he ran into trouble. It was the one mind he wanted complete control of that was slipping away. So… so sick.

Bowling was clearly not a useful thing either. He was denting the floor with a diamond hard, frozen ball more than he was hitting the pins. His insides still shook with anger as his thoughts whirled this way and that. It was starting to be too much for the Russian man. Everything was starting to be too much, and it was maddening. He’d be mad before too much longer, if he already wasn’t mad as a hatter. Don’t put your eggs all in one basket… don’t count your chickens before they hatch… Makism was chicken shit now.

It’s more that he feels the man’s presence than anything else. Quinn has got a way of lighting up the room, at least for Makism. He knows the man is there long before he actually arrives. Well aware of the Irishman, the green eyed boy bristles. Still, the ball in his hands is cold enough to crack slightly, audibly in the near silent bowling alley. The Russian boy bristles slightly, turns stiffly to look at the man. ”I’m miserable, Tarquin, you know that. You are too.” His words are soft, holding the accent with a light, toying lilt. His eyes are gentle on the man’s face, studying. Makism’s blood has run cold, and he aches.

[tarquin finley ellis]

His mind did not quite roam the same way as it had used to. No, when it went off, Quinn was contemplating, analysing, deciding what he wants. Flights of fancy were now disassembled into how it could be had and then he would go for it. He no longer even bothered to think out an alternative for those that were pissing him off. Violence, plain and simple. A warning or two before he would simply snap. A dog that wouldn't listen needed to be put down, right? Not that Quinn had put down any actual dogs lately, that reference was purely for obnoxious people. He'd snapped a wrist today because it had gone far too close to what he didn't want touched. There were claw marks on his arms, but he'd wrapped the worse of them under gauze. It didn't bother him a bit, not really. Just stung a bit. Nothing that mattered.

Quinn wanted control of things, he wanted to say when and where and how; and for the most part he did if it could be managed. Not everything was that easy, but he would find ways around it if there were such a way. He was restless right now, wanting to do something out of the ordinary. He was bored, which had led him here to the arcade in the first place. There were only so many fights he could pick before he wanted to do something else, and that's where it was at. Perhaps he would go in for testing, sign up for more because why not? He could be pitted against the others without minding. The risks no longer meant a thing to him. Quinn didn't give a damn. There was no reason for him to live other then for life itself. He was making it all so very simple for himself. He was just a beast now, going through the motions.

The sound of a cracking bowling ball from the cold is enough to tell him how Makism is feeling just now. Though looking at the lane the man was using showed all the dents from a too-cold bowling ball being thrown repeatedly. When Makism turns, Quinn steps back, arms falling away from around the man's waist. As the words come he takes the bowling ball from Makism, feeling the cold in his palms before moving to set it aside. "I'm not miserable, I'm bored." He responds evenly, looking calmly back at the man. He reaches out for Makism's hands with his own, lacing their fingers and dipping in boldly for a kiss. "Come play, I want to look at you." He adds with a playful smile that barely reaches his glittering eyes. There's nothing actually sexual about his actions or words; he does want to play, and that's all.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism has such a propensity towards cold... now he does, at least. How often he grows cold... it's when there's no one to come and hold him, no one to bring warmth again. It's Quinn's touch that brings it often, and he can't help but love it. Warm skin on cold... something to make him feel alive again. Makism had felt as if he was growing cold, everything was melting away. It was a stinging, raw cold even. It was the kind of cold, clearly, that was just enough to crack bowling balls.

He mostly stifles a groan as the man's hands slip away. What was heat and light became cold again rapidly. He gazes up at the man's eyes, watching them. He looks for the darkness there and the light that he used to have. All Makism wants to do is cuddle to Quinn's chest, to lay in bed half naked all day... he wants things to go back to normal where they could look at houses online and order all sorts of frivolous things. Normal had been so beautiful, and he'd never realized when he had it. Maddening, it was now.

The men have always been sexual tension and sparks, and the look in the Russian man's eyes are no different. He burns for Quinn, eyes holding a sort of feverish glimmer. The feeling of the other man's hands on his own is something that he'll never get over, he'll never want to be done with. They fit together rather perfectly, he knew that. They simply... fit. The kiss... how he could get lost in a kiss. Makism melts against it, into it, kissing back and matching the man step for step. His words are heavy, filled with an emotion he can't place that's love and hope and heart break all rolled into one. "Then we'll play."

[tarquin finley ellis]

It was a dry warmth that he brought now, cruel heat instead of the kind that came from hugs and puppies. It's empty, the warmth that Quinn has now. There's nothing behind it except for raw, blistering fire. It doesn't soothe, it stings. It could be there to keep the chill away, and just as quickly taken away, making it much worse for the lack of it. It's biting and fierce, all consuming if one got too close, tempted too much. It would burn away the good and living things until there's nothing that isn't burnt, soot, ash. Quinn was no gentle flame, he was a raging inferno behind a metal wall. Bad to touch or try to openm but pretty enough from afar.

Quinn looks back at Makism, keeping a level -- even if he was taller then the man -- gaze. The darkness is everywhere and the light has been burnt out. Normal is gone, and it has to be accepted. Quinn does not want normal. He barely wants any of the things that he had before, the things that had mattered so very much. He's forgotten why most of it even had mattered. Quinn had no use for houses and frivolous things. That had never been his cup of tea. He'd liked the weapon collections and the needed things; very few things that were just there just because. All of that had been for Makism. All of that no longer meant a thing.

There's something empty and hollow in the kiss from Quinn's side. There isn't much meaning behind the action, it's just as thriving as any random stranger's kiss. Perhaps the type of kiss that Makism had sought from him the night they had met. Just a kiss and nothing more to it. No emotion burning behind the action. That was gone. So much was gone. When Makism responds to his words, Quinn beams at the man. There's nothing bright or good about the look, however. It's sinister and cold. He tugs on Makism's hands, impatient. "Let's go swimming, Makism." Comes the impish idea. "Naked." He adds, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism may never stop being enthralled with Quinn. It's something that comes from being so deeply in love with a person it hurts. All that stinging and pain will eventually roll itself into a sort of strange obsession. Obsession will come with a harsh brilliance, a dazzling sort of light around the other person. Toward the other person. Makism had jumped through a million hoops for Quinn and he'd jump through a million more if it meant for there to be warmth again. 

He hates seeing Tarquin like this. It's the hollow eyes, the sunken flesh around his ribs, the way his kiss tastes different. Makism feels helpless and it's not a good feeling. He realized only now how dependent on the other man he'd become, a quality he really didn't like in anyone. It was Quinn pushing him away as a general rule that drove him mad. Any time the man came knocking he'd come running, like some puppy waiting for his master to come home. He'd managed to become all the things he hated. 

Quinn's hands on his own bring him back down, back into his skin. A part of the Russian man knows he's changed and that change is for the worse, but he's too in love to care. Very few things matter to a man that's as enthralled as with another as Makism is with Quinn. He lifts the man's impatient hands to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. "So long as there isn't a 'look don't touch' rule I think that can be arranged." A grin cracks his lips, hands moving to slip beneath Quinn's shirt. Maybe it would be a good evening after all.

 

[tarquin finley ellis]

Quinn was losing feeling in so many ways. It was a defense against the pain he'd had to endure. It was much better in Quinn's opinion to hollow himself out then deal with the horrible feelings that had started to overcome him. Another breakdown, this one where he hadn't let anyone pick up the pieces. Not when it was needed the most. That doesn't mean key traits will be gone. In some ways they could start to fade too, but everything in it's own time. Quinn cold still know obsession and act on that. He could still know loss and lash out against it if he felt the need to.

Was he thinning out a little due to drug use? Quinn hadn't been paying much attention to it, though he wasn't going overboard with it. There were days he didn't take any drugs at all. Then there's Makism and the way the man still clings. Quinn pushes because he can't help but push, but even then he gets it. He can see why in his own warped way. It's why for the most part he still doesn't say no. There are things he will no longer allow or give into, but he'll still come back to Makism for company. There wasn't much good company in this godforsaken place to begin with, and Connor only made him more angry half the time.

It was possible in some shallow way that Quinn could accept Makism's place at his side, but the man asks too much of him now. Makism wants too much for Quinn to give in to that. There had been changes in how he responds to the man, and Quinn isn't protecting him in all the ways he had been. Even from himself and his own secret urges and wants. He had been careful before. He wasn't now. He pauses in his tugging on Makism to watch the man kiss his knuckles, listening to the words and nodding his consent. "Of course there'll be touching." He responds with the cheshire cat grin right back at Makism. He feels the hands under his shirt, and tugs again. "C'mon, you can grope in the pool." He adds and pulls away, still keeping one hand held to try and drag Makism along.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism had been the devout puppy for so long... it was what he always had been, now wasn't it? For Quinn, at least. This was a young man that was nothing short of an unstoppable force, something that was a creature of pure nature and violence and rough raw power. When things crashed together for so long, with such great force, it was strange and eerie when they just.. when they weren't. It was enough to make the man feel run down, feel beaten up. He'd been wandering about entirely numb thanks to a flask he said he wasn't going to drink from. There was so much shit he'd said he wouldn't do... things changed.

Things never seemed to change for the better. Still, he finds himself reacting to Quinn's hands on his body, hands in his. He's always reacted to the Irishman like this, right from day one. There's a low, simmering heat that builds up so easily between the two men, something that he can allow himself to be wrapped up in time and time again. Everything feels so good, so grand, and it swallows him alive with every last lingering, simmering touch.

Makism finds himself being tugged along, a light laugh in his throat. His free hand wraps around Quinn's waist, leaning up to kiss the man's lips. There's nothing empty about the way he offers that kiss... it's clear that the pyro has the hand of a man in love. It feel good, it feels grand. For Makism, so long as he can touch Quinn he can pretend to himself that everything he wants is still there. "I've missed seeing your stupid pale ass." It's lightly, jokingly he speaks, his hand trailing down to rest on Quinn's backside. They can flirt just as they always have.

[tarquin finley ellis]

Oh, there was just so much that Quinn had thought or said he'd never do that he didn't mind doing now. All of that and all the already-screwed up morals he'd once had were all out the window now. It would be interesting to see if even Makism could see how much he might be able to get away with in regards to Quinn now. There weren't things that he was going to offer of course; there wasn't a lot he would just offer right now. But things were much different now. If only the right button was pushed.... but again, it was all about realizing just how much Quinn no longer cared. It might be a stunning sort of revelation if Makism were to see just how fucked up some of Quinn's thoughts had become. The length he was willing to go to get what he wanted when he wanted it.

There are quite a few tthings that dart through his mind these days that would have never crossed his mind before. It was bad enough that Quinn had forced Connor the way he had, bad enough that Quinn really was starting to become the slut Makism had accused him of. Might as well earn the label, right? And now Quinn wasn't caring too much on how many or who so long as it was what he wanted in that moment. He was actually thinking off adding to that number just because some simple urge had pressed him to seek out a certain creature he'd seen before. In some twisted way it made sense in his mind. Though it wasn't a priority. He wasn't going to hunt just because he could. He'd have to be bored or have been less neglectful of those he should be entertaining already. But if he just happened on by... another story, that.

For now he was quite content with Makism's company, and the thought of getting in someone's pants wasn't even on Quinn's radar right now. He was doing well enough with the idea of skinny dipping with the man who wasn't trying to jerk his mind around. There was only so much nonsense he could take. Quinn is accepting of all Makism's touching, the way the man's arm moves around his waist, the asking for a kiss in action only which Quinn gives into without hesitation -- or feeling -- and there's only a bemused smirk that plays on Quinn's face when he hears Makism's words and feels the hand moving lower from where it had been. "And yours is quite a grand piece of flesh I wouldn't mind having my hands all over again soon." He replies, canting his head to watch the way Makism's ass moves as the man walks. Then something does occur to him in those moments. "You aren't wearing those horrid piercings, are you?" His lips formed a bit of a sneer at the thought. He simply did not like them.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Morals had been pushed to the wind, if slightly in the Russian man. Things had started to blur, lines were starting to shift, redraw themselves in different places. This was different. Things were different now. Fuck change, fuck everything. Fuck it all. They were cold and heat and violence, and that was never going to show through more than it did now. Makism was nearly shaking with what had been welling up inside him for ages now.

"I know I'm a magnificent beast." The man can't help but grin, but smirk. Something about the phrase sounds all the more sinister with his accent playing away in it. "Not today. Wasn't intending on impressing anyone with my nakedness, so I figured running bare was passable." Makism rolls his eyes, taking the lead as they move toward the pool.

[tarquin finley ellis]

The terrible truth on how far gone Quinn was would stun himself had he had the slightest idea that it would come to this down the road. He would have never believed it, would never have given it another passing thought. There was no way it could come to that. But it had. It had gotten to the worst point it could, and Quinn doesn't even know it yet. Not even in these moments. But it's still there, still lurking under the surface, just waiting to be let out. Something had to give, because the creature he was now was far too out of hand. Once everything was finally realized, there would be no stopping him and all the lengths that he could and might go.

Quinn's chuckle in response to Makism's egotistical words is low, but the sound ensures whoever is listening that he agrees with the statement anyway. "Indeed." He finally does give vocal agreement, because he knows Makism would want to hear it, and because it's true. No matter what changes in his feelings, his emotions; Quinn knows what is still there and true. He would always be attracted to the Russian man. He would always crave to touch that near perfectly -- Quinn still can't see an actual imperfection, he's so damn blinded -- formed body he knew so well. When Makism tells him that the piercings aren't in, Quinn smiles approvingly. "Good. I want to rub my hands over your hips and nibble at the skin without them in my way." He points out as he continues to walk, not minding that the man is leading the way right now. Better view of that ass, anyway.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Everything is charged. Everything has always been running on high for a very long while, has been strangling with perfect electricity. He's buzzing, humming with energy as he feels Quinn's fingers on his skin. With the other man's hands so close to his wrist, he's aware that he can probably feel his pulse. It's pounding, always pounding. How strange a thing it is, the beating of one's own heart.

There are things he craves. Human contact is the top of that list... Makism wants to be touched. It's not just the naked sort of touching with the sweating and the heavy breathing... though that is nice. Just holding someone's hand, just knowing that they're close, half of an equation that's at least passable. You don't touch someone else unless you want to, after all. Maybe he just thrives on the idea of being wanted.

"Hush." Makism reaches down, swatting at the larger man's ass. It's not far that he has to go, the height difference making everything nearly comical. Everything this evening actually appears to be going alright, and Makism is more than alright with that. He doesn't break away when he issues his challenge, but he squeals slightly with glee. "Come on, silly beast. I'll race you."

[tarquin finley ellis]

Quinn doesn't think about the vibe in the air, the one that's holding just above his head and threatening to break, to snap and send sparks all over him. There isn't any way around something breaking, as more and more Quinn sinks into the darkness. But right now Quinn doesn't think of that. He thinks of how he can feel something else humming through the Russian man merely from touch, and it's no different from before, that thing in Makism that draws him closer. Begs him to touch the man anywhere in any way. And once upon a time it was that very thing that had Quinn aching for Makism to possess him, too. And then everything started to crack. The pressure had been far too much. Quinn had shattered under it.

He has to be aware of his own heart and how it beats, even if he doesn't want to feel anything. It's only the physical that he has to keep attuned to now. Watch those little hiccups in beats that tells him he can't press on. It's fine, he knows very well how to get around it now. It's taken some time, twice for him to feel how close death lurks. But Quinn isn't afraid anymore. He isn't worried about who he will leave behind if it gets out of hand. He doesn't think it will, not unless he wills it to. Right now Quinn just wants, and he's willing to take and take until he doesn't want anymore. But that will never happen; there's always more to grab for. Right?

Quinn doesn't need to be touched, and yet there are still certain ways of doing it that affects him. He can't help it, even broken, sharp edges have a weak point somewhere. Not that anyone intelligent would want to test it and find out where they were. Too dangerous, and Quinn could lash out if pressed too much. But this playfulness he takes in stride, humming at the swat and sticking his tongue out at Makism. His gaze is sharply bright at the challenge the man gives, and he snorts. He knows damn well that as quick as he can be in movement, when it's a down and out race, Makism is going to win. Quinn is grace and reflexes. The Russian man has the track, and Quinn can't even pretend otherwise. But he'll run anyway. He always does. "Call it." He goads, ready to launch himself when Makism does.

[makism vandik tarasov]

The thing about the pair is that they've always been dangerous. Nothing about either of them has ever been within the realm of safe, of normal, of... well, sane. Both men are crashing, moderately clumsy beasts that have no business being in a relationship, no less with each other. Well, they hadn't. They hadn't and they had and they'd been in love and now... and now. And now they were in the situation they were in and Makism's hear was breaking and Quinn... Quinn was broken. The Russian man knew him well enough to see it clear as day.

The man would actually be a fair runner if he had better form and an acceptance of proper footwear. "On your mark..." The man braces himself, not letting go of Quinn's hand. "Get set..." He's coiled, ready to spring. "Go!" The man cries in his thick Russian accent, and he takes off full force. It's just moments, however, before he finds himself sliding around in his flip flops, careening onto his ass.