cold when i wake [quinn]

[tarquin finley ellis]

Enthralled. He does remember what that's like. The first time he felt it, really felt it. Makism had wanted a kiss, and Quinn just wanted to fuck. Well; that escalated quickly. It was pretty much over right then and there, but he hadn't known it yet, hadn't wanted to admit anything. Too stubborn, and he did not want to be hurt again. He wanted to keep himself safe. The initial plan had been to use and lose Makism. Things hadn't worked out that way, not at all. Quinn had been hooked. More then hooked. But things had made everything difficult. Time changed a person. Mistakes changed so much.

And Quinn is just driven by his baser impulses and wants. There's the constant need to dominate, to claim and screw and give in to all his primal urges. It had been padded by emotions and so many other things before. Now it was raw and wild and Quinn didn't want to hold back any of it. His breath hitches as Makism continues to grind against him, and the smirk Quinn has to the words the man speaks is bemused. "Can't argue with that point..." He responds, watching and wiggling from his shorts, hands roaming teasingly over the curious undies Makism is wearing. Then the man is suddenly without those, too. Yes, this is going to be rough. There will be pain and Quinn can't wait to make Makism scream as it fades to black.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Quinn is driven by the primal urge to dominate. Makism is driven by nothing other than a love for Quinn...a love to be beneath him, screaming and writhing. That's just what he gets--screaming and writhing and bleeding. The Russian man feels more alive than he has in ages, with uonn on top of him. There's a fight the characterizes them so well, the power struggle. It's invigorating.

Makism collapses, breathing hard, overstimulation, sweaty and bleeding sluggishly. His body is limp and he's been worked over well. That doesn't keep him from seeking out a cuddle where cuddles are due.

[tarquin finley ellis]

Makism collapses, but Quinn rolls and stretches like an overly pleased and satisfied jungle cat. For those moments of aftermath pleasure all is right in Quinn's world. He doesn't even mind the cuddling that Makism seeks out; quite content to stay in his spot while the man moves close again. There are a few sore spots over his body from the fight, but it's nothing really new to him and there's a certain matter of pride to have them anyway. Badges of another fight won; a victory that led to Makism screaming, writhing and bleeding under him. Just the way Quinn liked it.

It takes some time for the panting to return to normal breathing, his heartbeat to stop skipping every so often. Quinn was usually careful about that part so it didn't get out of control. He was merely used to the limits now. But even Quinn has to admit to being tired after that workout, and he figures that once he has any wish to get up again, he'll have to beeline for a shower. That had been the original plan. Shower and a change of clothes. But finding Makism in his bed like that was far too tempting to just walk away from. It's funny what days locked up in a restraint room would do to someone physically.

[makism vandik tarasov]

There has always been something dangerous about them, and Makism is feeling it now more than ever. There's something nearly scary hanging in the air between the two men. He can feel marks rising on his back, neck, chest, ass, hell even his face. The man was aware he'd been hit not once, not twice... hell, dozens of times. The scrap of nails, the clamp of teeth-- that's the way it had been. That's the way it always had been. If you can't take the heat get out of the kitchen, and they were nothing but firepower.

But in the aftermath, Makism can't bring himself to turn away. He can't bring himself to duck out of where he is with the man. His green eye dance slightly as they trace the sharp lines and curves of Quinn's face as they outline against the light. His head rests on the creature's chest, hand resting on the man's hip. He doesn't want to move, though bleeding sluggishly and feeling his muscles burn.

[tarquin finley ellis]

This sort of thing had happened a good number of times, it was true. Not always, since they'd end up looking like discolored lumps all the time. Still, it had to happen now and then. Just who and how they were. Of course there had been a time when Quinn had been more apt to refrain from it after the time his heart decided to go all fucked up after a rather violent bout; but he had figured out how to get around that and knew his limits better now. Which was a good thing, since going without that type of sex would really irritate Quinn. He was quite addicted to it now. It was his favored way,, and he wouldn't give it up. He could have once upon a time... but that didn't work out.

Quinn relaxed in that all too pleased manner, not bothered by the way Makism cuddled up to him. He wasn't certain that he really wanted to be touched just now, yet on the other hand he would probably have to deal with the man's bitching about it if he said something. That would be a buzzkill. Didn't give him much of a good choice. So for now, this time, Quinn was letting it slide. For at least a few minutes before he got up for that shower he wanted. It needed to happen, and moreso now then before he'd slid into bed. He glanced at Makism after awhile and shifted away, moving out of bed. "I'm going to shower." He said evenly, looking back at the man, gaze lingering before he started for the bathroom.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism feels as if he's burning from the inside out. It's not what's just happened-- he's used to that. He's used to everything being rough and harsh and strikingly gory. It was that which Makism thrived on for quite a while.. and now? Now. Now he had what was... strange. There was feeling welling up in his chest that was ugly, a feeling that did nothing but hurt.

Makism's shoulders and chest ache as the man gets up, as he slips from bed. His core is screaming, aching. Breaking. There's a white hot pain in his skull, reverberating with a crashing, chaotic feel. As soon as Quinn is gone the cold comes rushing back in. The man is going to shower, and all he can do is nod. It's not until he's sure the Irishman won't look back that he slips from the bed and back into his own room, walk of shame in the man's sweatshirt and rumpled shorts.