|
|
Post by makism vandik tarasov on Nov 6, 2012 21:25:47 GMT -5
They've always been twisted. Makism has never been able to have control over... anything, really. He's out of control, he's dangerous. The Russian man has always been strikingly dangerous, a predator. It drives him nearly insane, and it's perfect. The icy creature soaks up the heat but he allows the cold to well up. Makism wants that feeling to build up, he wants to feel the burn of fire against his cold skin.
There's a growl in the man's throat, possessive. It's nakedbody on naked body. Hips and chests press together, Makism's pupils are dilated. His head is spinning, and it's what he wants to feel. "Come on, pyro." The creature has a sneaking look of extacy creeping across his face... this is where things get hot.
|
|
|
|
Post by tarquin finley ellis on Nov 6, 2012 22:21:20 GMT -5
 Quinn likes control. He likes to have it, to feel like he has it. Always. But that doesn't mean there's all that much self control within him, because there isn't. He does things on impulse quite often, no matter the consequences. He doesn't really think a lot of things through before he goes and does them. It's only getting worse. So much worse. Even without that factor Quinn is dangerous. He was dangerous far before he had come here, before he ever had fire racing within his veins, the heat of flames in his very fingertips. Yet the danger is what tempts Quinn. In some way or another, it's often about that.
He warms more at the icy touches, starting to get into it, the battle between fire and ice. It's just beginning, just teasing right now. But it's building, it'll get there. It has to. With Makism and Quinn there doesn't seem to be any other way. It needs to happen. And Quinn doesn't even think twice about the possessive growl from the Russian Man. He's used to it, and he's ready to show who is possessed and who isn't; it's going down. With the urging of Makism's words, he grins. "Impress me then, Blue." He rumbles lowly, letting things fade to black. |
|
|
|
Post by makism vandik tarasov on Nov 7, 2012 0:24:37 GMT -5
He's just done something more dangerous than he maybe should have. The Russian man finds himself groping, grasping for a constant body tempature. The last... the last few... well, let's just say the last period of time he'd spent naked in Quinn's bed, had been spent riding the bumps and bruises that were so used to giving each other. Makism can feel a sheen of sweat on his skin, can feel it clinging. He clings too, to the source of warmth.
He's panting. He knows that there are scrapes and marks and burns, bite marks, hand prints adorning his ass... they like it rough. Makism curls to Quinn's chest, still wrapped up in the bliss after their delicate, dirty little dance. He's enthralled by the man still, and he needs the warmth. His lips are blue again, cold to the touch.
|
|
|
|
Post by tarquin finley ellis on Nov 7, 2012 0:41:14 GMT -5
That was different. It had been a thrilling sort of experience; all new with the hot and cold and all the new boundaries that pushed with them. It was terribly dangerous for both of them to have played such a game. Quinn knows that, and it's part of what interested him so much in trying it. There are more marks then he's used to on his body, and it's odd having cold burns marring his skin. That's not something he's felt before, not like this. But it doesn't bother him. It's just strange.
Yet it does take it's toll on him, and Quinn is panting right along with Makism. The cold had kept him from over-heating, from his heart rate getting too out of control. Quinn hadn't even given it much thought, because the blood had been frozen just enough to keep it sluggish when things got too close. The game was dangerous in so many ways, and yet it kept Quinn from passing out. From the blood, the veins bursting. And now as the man curls to him, he's starting to warm back to normal, and his body with all it's new marks is singing from the pleasure and the high. From the rush. |
|
|
|
Post by makism vandik tarasov on Nov 7, 2012 0:55:17 GMT -5
Over and over and over again... Makism is still in love. Deep, dark, insufferable love. It's bearing down on him in more ways than one and still he clings to the Irishman where he lies. The creature shivers from the cold, from the sensation that's taken over. Another thought slips into his mind as he sniffles slightly, a hand moving through Quinn's hair. "Where'd you put that box?" It was about time for another couple of lines, about time for something else to take the edge off. How grand it was to be curled so close to the heat source himself.
|
|
|
|
Post by tarquin finley ellis on Nov 7, 2012 1:08:41 GMT -5
It's all calm and good and Quinn doesn't want to move. He's just feeling this, letting the mix of drugs and post-sex bliss run through him and clinging to that, wanting to hold onto it and let it continue onward. So when Makism asks for the box, at first it escapes Quinn as to which box the man refers to, and then when it clicks he grunts softly and shrugs his shoulders. He doesn't have a clue what happened to it, he forgot where it went after snorting his two lines.
It couldn't have gone far though, because Quinn hasn't gotten up from the bed since injesting the coke. "Maybe it fell off the bed?" The words are half mumbled, and he simply flings an arm towards the side of the bed. Dramatic effect, but he doesn't care. He's high and feeling good and he won't go searching for the damn box. He was good where he was, thanks much. |
|
|
|
Post by makism vandik tarasov on Nov 7, 2012 1:20:50 GMT -5
Makism groans low in his throat. If the box had been close he'd have gone after it, but Quinn's proximity is just as intoxicating. His lips press to the hollow of the man's throat, a gentle kiss on the skin. All the skin... he loves it. The Russian man thrives on contact like this... it makes him feel alive. He can be alive again under Quinn's gentle fingers. "I'll get it later..."
It's the fingers that he seeks out. His left hand rests on the Irishman's bare hip, clinging to the skin. His right seeks out what he needs to find, fingers, a hand to hold. The spaces between his fingers... those were where Makism's belonged.
|
|
|
|
Post by tarquin finley ellis on Nov 7, 2012 1:31:09 GMT -5
There's a light chuckle at the way Makism groans at Quinn's response about the box, and his lips shift into a quirky smile. He embraces the feeling of lips at the hollow of his throat, a 'murring' sort of noise in his throat as he tilts his head back. This is good, this he can embrace, even if he isn't moving much at all.
Words from Makism, again about the box, but the man wasn't going to budge from Quinn's side to get it. Which is good, because Quinn is feeling quite fine with all the touching and contact and it's best to take advantage of that while Makism can. More that Quin actually holds to the fingers that settle with his own with a light smile. He lets the buzz -- wearing off even as it is -- keep him in this lull. It's nice. |
|
|
|
Post by makism vandik tarasov on Nov 7, 2012 1:34:53 GMT -5
The man's fingers roam. His left hand travels the curves and courses of muscle that he knows so well find the pads of his fingers. A man as in love as ever, Makism lets it feel like home. This is home, right here, wrapped around Quinn. "Funny how hell is starting to feel like home." The Russian man muses ever so softly, his lips a breath away from the Irishman's skin. His hand is warm, gentle inside that of the other. Everything was beautiful, and for now nothing hurt. It was so rarely that things didn't hurt, especially between these two. A match made in hell, indeed.
|
|
|
|
Post by tarquin finley ellis on Nov 7, 2012 1:51:03 GMT -5
He closes his eyes as Makism's fingers roam over him, and he lets his mind wrap around the movement of the man's hand. He doesn't think of anything else for now, just letting that be all for now, all he needs. It doesn't matter that the buzz is drifting away from him, that he can feel the dull, throbbing aches along his body that actually make him just feel more alive. This is good, this is grand and he can just immerse himself in what is here and now. That's all he wants in these moments. Just this.
A low, amused sound wells up in his throat after Makism speaks, and his hand around the man's gives a faint squeeze. "It's not like we can ever really leave...." The words are almost a sigh, but not quite. Yet for him it's true, even if Makism still thinks he can get free. Even if Quinn could find a way out, he knows that as soon as he does, he'd be put down like a rabid dog anyway. He should have been ages ago, to be honest. And he accepts this as fact. So much points to it being true. |
|
|
|
Post by makism vandik tarasov on Nov 7, 2012 1:56:39 GMT -5
Makism can't tell you what's going on in his head. He doesn't have the faintest idea, and maybe that scares him. He can't be scared at the direct moment though, for he's wrapped up in the moon pale grasp of the man he'd fallen in love with. Quinn still means too much to him. The monster that had begun to well up inside the man, all the dark things that didn't have names... all of them. All of them chased away by one simple touch. To hell in one simple touch. "I've missed you, Quinn." The words are gentle, washing over Quinn's neck with a slightly chilly breath.
|
|
|
|
Post by tarquin finley ellis on Nov 7, 2012 2:07:00 GMT -5
There has been so much going on in Quinn's head the past few weeks. Too much to really get a good grasp on. He tries to make it seem like everything is okay, that nothing needs to really matter. But there will always be a breaking point, even if he won't show it, even if he doesn't want to let anyone in. He tries to push them all away, but he can't even manage it. He still seeks Makism out through all this, still finds reasons to touch the Russian man. To be near him, around him. He isn't able to just stop, no matter how much he wishes he could.
It would be easier if he could just forget, if he could just walk away and not look back. But even with the cold in his heart and the way he doesn't want to truly budge with that, Quinn can't just go. He can't walk away. He looks back and it's his downfall. Always his downfall. At Makism's words he sighs softly. "Shh... just let us have this without remembering what it really is." There's a frown at his lips now, as he speaks these things. It's starting to all sweep back in now that Makism has brought it up, and there's no way to prevent it now. |
|
|
|
Post by makism vandik tarasov on Nov 7, 2012 2:13:18 GMT -5
Makism's main downfall is that he doesn't shut the fuck up. It's become a problem in the past where he can't keep words from slipping past his lips, words that aren't the best ones to be said. It's the ones that he has said, now, that get him into trouble. His grasp tightens only slightly on Quinn's hand, tensing visibly. The cold is seeping back in, the little control he had over it starting to shatter.
A million words come to mind and so does everything that's happened. Its' starting to make Makism sick... why is he always the one that has to clean up a mess and clean up himself? "I'm not the favorite any more, Tarquin... I know." The crelature's teeth dig into his lower lip, voice growing quieter with every word.
|
|
|
|
Post by tarquin finley ellis on Nov 7, 2012 2:28:55 GMT -5
There is a lot that Quinn says that he shouldn't, too. Words that just come that he doesn't keep in and needs to. He's terribly good at beating around the bush, at saying everything in such a manner that gives the idea of doing what the other might want of him. But really it's just his way of getting around it, of doing exactly as he wants and nothing more then that. It doesn't always work out, but he's so very careful in those moments. He hasn't been for days. Quinn's been reckless and angry; impulsive and cruel. He lashes out without a need to do so. He wants everyone to hurt because he does.
He can feel the way Makism's hand tenses in his, and it won't be long before it all falls and shatters. And when the words come, Quinn inhales long and low. He doesn't know how to respond to that, he doesn't really realize how fucked up he's been about it all. It's hopeless. Quinn's free hand finds the side of Makism's face. "You are the most lovely creature I have ever set eyes on, but your insides are all messed up. Not as rotten as I am, maybe. But something within me wanted to be saved. Something still screams for that. I don't know why." It's probably the most honest thing he's said all week. Maybe all month. Hell, it could be much longer then that since. |
|
|
|
Post by makism vandik tarasov on Nov 7, 2012 2:36:11 GMT -5
Makism shakes. He's quivering, and this time it isn't simply the cold. He's never simply anything, and those are the truest words you'll hear all day. Everything in his head is complicated as it crashes around. Things like jealousy and hatred bubble up, the most pure emotions he can feel. It's strange, how something can be so crystalline and brilliant and how it can be so... so not. It's not dull, but it's muddy.
There's no thinking as his head turns, lips pressing to Quinn's palm. They're gentle, warm. For a mess and a monster of a man, he can be so soft with the Irishman. It happens when someone is just as tainted as you are... it helps. "And you think... you think he can save you." He doesn't stutter. Makism hasn't stuttered since he was a child and he wasn't about to start that again. Instead, the words are measured, soft. Everything is nearly too soft for the fact that everything inside is breaking.
|
|
