BEAUTIFUL LIES [quinn]

[tarquin finley ellis]

There was always going to be want. It was who they were, how they lived. Quinn more then anything would always have a bit of a problem with that. It wasn't so much that he wanted things, but it was the other sort of stuff. The stuff that you couldn't just see, that wasn't always there. Quinn's room was neat and clean; he did not have a lot of random things. There were no pictures or posters on the walls, no nic-nacs on his computer desk. Those were pointless to him. It was all what he needed and a few things that he simply liked. That helped. The computer and stereo, the mp3 player and cellphone. Not that much, anyway.

Quinn darts after Makism, not even bothering to bring his own clothes; he'll come back for them later. It's hard not to laugh at the audacity of doing such a thing, so he just lets it go, having fun with doing something he knows he should not. But he has no shame in his body, and he likes the freedom of no clothes. The cold of the air means nothing to him, his skin heats as needed to combat the chill as he runs along, simply enjoying the moment. Yes, living in the moment is what he's finding he likes. It's easier that way.

[makism vandik tarasov]

This moment... their moment. There's been a million of their moments before, and that's something Makism wants to hold onto for as long as he can. The fact that these moments now are few and far between... he clings to them now. The Russian man's hand is tight around Quinn's, it's as if he clings.

He does cling. The man is dry by the time he wrenches the door of the man's room open, laughing madly. There's a shine in his eyes, he's warm and comfortable. Everything is free to feel good for a little while. He's still so painfully in love... it can't help but shine through. The green eyed boy dumps his clothes among the piles on Quinn's floor, not realizing yet that he dropped his underwear somewhere along the way. Oops. Oh well. It's then that he dives into the man's bed, flopping with a certain amount of theatrics.

[tarquin finley ellis]

Yes, they've had their moments and they might continue to have them, yet it wasn't like before. It wasn't the same. Nothing was the same. Both are different in some way, and Quinn's differences are big and bold and not exactly the good kind. He seems to think so, that it's for the best and that he's better off this way, but that's just Quinn's opinion on it. And of course he would think that way, because it's what he wants and right now that is all that matters to him. Doing things his way and going with it as he sees fit. For everyone else it's not great. He knows that, too.

But Quinn lets Makism cling, hand and heart and he doesn't say a thing just yet. Today is a good day and he's not too moody; he doesn't need to go there. Mild, even mannered and just down for some fun. Playful. The laughter from him has trickled into chuckling as he enters the room and shuts the door, turning to watch Makism dump the clothing to the floor and flop all so dramatically to the bed. Quinn grins at that, moves to his desk and grabs out a box and then settles on the bed next to the man. He hands the box over, and it's clear what it is, what must be inside it. The coke, of course. He did say he'd share, after all.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism melts to Quinn as the man nears. He always has. He's always been the clingy bitch too, and there's never been any shame in that. It makes the man happy to know that he can still have that, some days at least. There are days when he needs nothing more than to curl up to the Irishman and soak in the heat. This had been one of those days, he has to say. The words have to cross his mind, else they'll eat him alive. A lot of things will eat him alive, hell. A lot of things have already come close.

He leans into Quinn, grabbing the box with a small, greedy glimmer in his eye. It's moments before he withdraws a small hand mirror, a razor blade. With impatience the man draws two crooked lines of white powder and moments later takes a neon straw and... and then it's gone. One, then two, all in his system in a split second. The head rush is something he'll never get over, and the man passes it off with a hand wiping at his nose. This was his life now, wasn't it?

[tarquin finley ellis]

Quinn can't be what he has been. It's not that simple, and the past has molded him, shaped him into who he is now. All of those things had come together to this point, to this end. He doesn't want anyone to be able to really touch him. He has been cut into far too many times in too deep of ways to just let it slide again. To try again at all. So he let's the cold seep into his heart, he forgets the feelings of those around him if it affects what he wants or doesn't want. No one is put before him, no one can matter that much anymore. That's just how it is.

He watches idly as Makism takes the box and starts the process; for the Russian man to take his fill. There are multiple things in the box as to how to take cocaine, because there are various ways and Quinn likes to be prepared. Straws, a tightly curled hundred dollar bill, the mirror, a non reflective surface, razor blades... it was all there. Once Makism was done, Quinn took the box and made his two lines, using the bill to snort it up and feeling the bitter sting on already sensitive membrane in his nose. Putting the rest away, he laid back and stared at the ceiling as the feeling started to sink in.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Everything very slowly grows electric. A slow trickle of blood finds its way from Makism's nose, but the Russian man swats it away quickly. God damn it, he hadn't been used to this shit since he was on the club scene. Since... since awhile ago. A long while ago. "Silly rich boy, cash is for spending." The man can't help but chuckle gently, the head rush sinking in fully. His forehead goes to Quinn's neck, legs draping over the man's waist. Naked skin on naked skin is allowed to feel this good once in a while, right?

[tarquin finley ellis]

Quinn actually had a rather... sad -- but amusing -- reasoning to why it was cocaine that he had gone for out of all things. He was always so quick to spit the words 'blow me' whenever there was some kind of reason for it, and that was why. It seemed like the right thing to do, considering that had been the last push over the edge; having said that to Roman not long before he'd snapped his brother's neck. Terrible reason, but he had needed a drug to make it easier, and there was something poetically fucked up about using blow.

He glances slowly to Makism at the words, a small smirk gracing his lips as his mind started it's spinning. The good kind where he felt like he was at some sort of amusement park... close to flying. Even after Makism is close he pulls the man more to him with an arm around Makism's waist. It's in these moments that Quinn is clinging, letting the buzz vibrate along his skin because that's just what it feels like. "And what would you spend it on?" He questions evenly, fingers roaming over the man's skin.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism shivers. It had been so big on the club scene... more natural to do it than to not. This wasn't a man that necessarily wanted to be one of the crowd, but it was so easy. Why wouldn't he want to have his mind blown by the slurring of lights and words and legs and bodies and... and skin. Makism had a fascination with skin that spanned far and wide and into the realm of distinct possibility. It's something that he wanted to explore, and it had been easier with everything else melted away. It could be easier this way.

Things with Quinn were never easy. His hands smooth down the man's body, resting on his narrow hips. A trail of sparks follows Quinn's fingers on his own skin. The Russian man feels more alive than he has in days... weeks? Time here passes so strangely. He couldn't even tell you the day of the week. Makism curled into Quinn's body, trying to chase the cold away. "You know me... prone to flights of fancy. New shoes are my favorite... you knew that too." Makism couldn't avoid the cliche-- shoes, makeup, clothes... he was a man of simply expensive tastes. "All I really want right now is you."

[tarquin finley ellis]

Quinn wasn't a club kind of person. There were too many reasons to pick a fight in a club, too many ways to get drawn into that whole thing that he wouldn't be able to avoid. There would be fights and he'd be kicked out, only to start another fight in the streets because... why not? There would always be someone to push his buttons; there were too many strutting males to compete with, and Quinn would go into that headfirst without a single thought on if he should or not. Someone would be on the ground. And if he were to be high.... oh, the damage he could probably do.

His bodys shifts, leans into Makism's hands just now, wanting that touch because being this high makes it feel oh so good and he just wants more. He listens to Makism's response, hands slipping over thighs and hips and the Russian man's stomach; everywhere and anywhere with that warmth he knows Makism wants. "Yes... such disgusting shoes.... do you even own a pair I like at all? I don't think so..." Wandering words, and he pauses after the man had spoken again. He twists half over Makism, rubbing himself over the man's side. "Mmm, how do you want me?" He's high; so very high.

[makism vandik tarasov]

No one competed with what they knew wouldn't take no for an answer. No one would cross the Russian man if they knew what was good for them. No one had after that...not until Quinn. That's what drew him in the very first time. That's where he was hooked.

Now he's hooked in a different way. His fingertips trace the curves in the irishman's muscle, feeling the rippling beneath his hands strikingly arousing. Everything was arousing when you were naked and high cuddling, after all. "You know how I like it... long and rough." The man's lips grace Quinn's jaw, moving down his neck. "Fire and ice all night long." He's breathless. It's Quinn, taking his breath away again.

[tarquin finley ellis]

That was the thing that appealed to Quinn about Makism, too. The fact that everything about the Russian man seemed to say no, and all Quinn wanted to do then was say yes -- make it yes -- because of that. Makism had thought he could twist things around and wear Quinn down, even on that first night. It had happened the other way around first, and then it was simply over and there was no returning from where they had gone. Even now they hadn't been able to return. They had to go in another way. Quinn had to break out altogether because there was no backtracking. No way to be who he had been before Makism. The man had done too much to who Quinn was.

Nothing had ever been normal between them in the first place. There were sparks from the start and that could never be changed. Even with Quinn lacking in emotion there are sparks and electricity. It's all there. He moves with every touch, not letting those fingers get far from his flesh. He wants them on him right now. Craves it. He murmurs thoughtfully at what Makism says; yes he knows this. He knows it very well. He pulls the man up against him, sighing. "Long and rough.... Sounds splendid, you know... we should play with the heat and the cold..." And he wants to; has to know how it would go.

[makism vandik tarasov]

the weirdest thing is not playing for keeps. It's the way it had always been before... you can't chain a monster, he supposed. Why was it so hard to keep them down? Makism was starting to find out. As a beast awoke inside his bly he learned more and more each day. It was strange bit welcome. A change was always welcome.

Still, changed or not, he's buzzing. Part of it is Quinn. The smooth slkin, the slender body... he's always been after that body. The man himself? Who wouldn't want to climb all over their dream boy? Makism allows his hands to go freezing cold, tracing a chilled like down the man's torso. "Shall we experiment?"

[tarquin finley ellis]

He's always gone warm for Makism, always tried to help heat the man up becuase Makism seems to need it. But right now he just wants to feel the chill. Wants to feel it because he's always fairly warm, and sometimes it would be nice to cool off. It's why Quinn can't help but arch up into the touch, that approving moan slipping past his lips. It feels great on warm skin, and Quinn wants more. There's a moment where he forgets that there's a challenge in it that he has to rise up to. He just wants to feel this, these cold touches without anyone needing him to warm them up.

Chills race over him, and his eyes that had closed open again to stare at Makism when the words had been heard, and it's his turn to be breathless. "Do that again; it feels so good..." He purrs, trying to pull the man closer. It's just a simple touch that Quinn seeks, even if it is the cold in that touch that makes a world of difference. For once he wants it to be his turn to need a change to the heat he has to endure. He can keep it from burning him from the inside out, but that doesn't make him want to feel a reprieve any less. And right now he will take all he can get.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism knows that there's something special in a simple touch. It's touch that the man needs... that he wants. It never ceases to amaze him the way the man touches him... the way it drives him crazy. He's driven wild quite easily by the Russian man. It's something that he can be perfectly fine with... it's something that he can embrace and he can love. Makism is on fire as he touches the creature, kisses the man's moon pale skin.

His own even tan contrasts sharply. He leans down against Quinn's chest, fingers trailing down the pyro's torso. They're freezing, ice cold. Fire and ice, playing with disaster.

[tarquin finley ellis]

It's funny that Quinn's skin is so pale when he's of fire, that Makism is tan while the man is of ice and cold. It's like a twisted up ying-yang symbol between them. At least it's the first thing that really comes to Quinn's mind over the whole matter. The physical things, anyway. There is a lot of the same in the internal parts, which had been one of the main attractions to Quinn at first. That challenge of someone somewhat like him that he could push and pull back and forth with. In many ways it hasn't changed. But there is so much that has.

It doesn't need to be more then this, doesn't need to be torn apart and analyzed. Quinn just wants the cold on his skin, that contrast against the heat that doesn't go away. He's breathing a little more heavily simply because this is a grand thing; getting this little break where he can relax into the touches; let the buzz overtake him and make it all so much better. Quinn's hands warm and run over Makism's sides lightly, giving back. It was just starting, this clashing of hot and cold; and Quinn was interested in feeling it, going through it all. He wanted it.