(But the dawn is brief and the day full often belies its promise.)

[castintoflames]

FORM: Sending Crystal
SENDER: Maedhros
RECIPIENT: Anyone with a crystal.
WHAT: Manic? Did anyone say manic? This can't be good.
WHEN: Spanning a week? (7-10 days?)
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Someone is afflicted with a strange Flu.

(The fires are high in the Forge and someone is working at all hours. Have they come out for food? Water? Air? Well if you wondered, he does make a quick message.)

Whoever thinks knocking on the door is a good idea, will not leave unscathed next time!

(There is a strange light in his eyes - and if anyone knows of his father, they will recognize it immediately. Abort mission!)

I am on the cusp of making something spectacular and I do not need any interference. Do I make myself clear?

(What happened to the gentler Maedhros? Some might claim he has been swallowed by the flames of ambition.)

Comments

also dimwits not functionally communicating

[utulien_aure]

Half the Gallows restless at the moment, that doesn't mean you can start shouting at everyone who passes by!

[Funny how the person who's arguing for calming down is helping this get out of hand, isn't it, Fingon?]

What- [He hisses out a curse in Quenya-Maedhros knows how much he hates being reminded of their height difference- and grabs right back, hesitation and sense forgotten. He meets the kiss just as roughly, digging fingers into Maedhros' neck and shoulders hard enough to bruise.]

what is healthy communication?

[castintoflames]

Who is going to stop me? You? (All of that energy can be focused on better, more pleasurable matters, Fingon. Maedhros ignores the cursing - he ignores how angry he has made someone he has always sought to cheer. The bruises are accepted with a low growl of impatience. How many marks must this love of his make?!

Many more, likely. He welcomes the pain and pleasure, bucking his hips so that Fingon could have no doubt of what he planned. But first -

His hands pull, tug and tear at the clothing separating them, his mouth descending to the smaller Elf's neck. He bites and sucks, running his tongue over the mark possessively.)

Good question. Next question.

[utulien_aure]

Try me.

[Fingon hisses in Maedhros’ ear, scraping his teeth against his cousin’s jaw. Every mark and every bite is met, passion for passion and force for force- Fingon could do nothing else. And that is even more true than usual, given that that strange irritation that has blossomed in to fury. Fingon yo wants to mark, to claim, to possess.

He lets out a savage laugh as his shirt rips open.]

I liked that shirt!

OOC

[castintoflames]

Moved here!