he said what? ~~ Wynne

[Florian Emilio la Fabro]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] if you knew my story word for word, had all of my history would you go along with someone like me? The Words: NEVER ENOUGH The Outfit: IDK, CLOTHES >U The Notes I'm sorry, this is what my head gave me )8 It was very, very rare that a man like Florian la Fabro got angry. If you ddin’t know him well, the most he probably offered was a mild expression, peppered with the occasional smile. If you knew him better, you’d probably be treated to a wicked grin every now and then…but still that same, impassive mood. Today, though, Wynne Evans seemed to have reached the end of the cripple’s rope. “Right,” he’d said, after the words that had tipped him off the edge of his tolerance. Just one word, and after that the cripple had gotten up from the bed; lips pursed and eyes blazing. He wasn’t screaming mad – Florian never got like that – but there was an undeniable intensity in his features that spoke of a foul mood; of a temper crossed from tolerant to fed up. He’d had enough, he was done, he’d had it up to here with his boyfriend and he wanted to make the other male feel as shitty as he did himself. If Florian was honest with himself, he’d know that his mood wasn’t Wynne’s fault…completely. The only reason that he was angry at the Kappa president was because he was the one who was there, and who had been saying things that weren’t even the littlest bit funny that day. The day his man period seemed to start. In fact it was an observation of that nature from Wynne that had pushed the Italian over the edge. It was too much! He was allowed to be in a foul mood when his mother had been at him that morning. Carla had been very much in a mood herself. Forgiveness for not informing her about what had landed him in hospital twice in the last month still hadn’t been granted, and as such she liked to bring up the topic of his betrayal whenever she could. That, of course, was just another obfuscator to the real problem. The one that he wouldn’t properly admit to himself, let alone verbalise. His leg hurt. A lot. The cramping made his lurch across the Irishman’s room to dig up a crumpled, crusty and forgotten plastic bag particularly ungainly. When he made a graceless swipe for his quarry, he almost fell over. His arm hurt just as much. Usually when his leg was being bad, he’d hulk along with that blasted cane of his…but today he couldn’t. God, how long had it been since his hand had seized? Anything that happened before he fell in with Wynne seemed an age ago, when really it couldn’t be more than a couple of months at most (Florian wouldn’t know exactly, he wasn’t the sort of man who kept track of time). But college…had been surprisingly good for his bung arm and leg. The doctor and physio had always talked at him about higher levels of activity being good for him, but he’d never bought into it. The past few weeks, however, proved it right. When Wynne didn’t have him running around doing crazy stuff he was cooking, and when he wasn’t cooking, they were probably having a romp in the bedroom (or a sex shop changeroom). Even today, when he just wanted to curl up somewhere and not move ever again, he was moving! He had his little bag in hand, and was dragging himself and his damn useless leg down to the room which held the panty wall of fame. This time the movement was making him feel like shit, but the angry part of Florian’s brain told him that this would make him feel better. Just a little bit. Maybe. If there were any protests from Wynne behind him, they fell on deaf ears. The freshman was on a mission, and he wouldn’t waver until it was done. He parked himself in front of the panty wall, lungs puffing and face flushed, and glared at the homage to Kappa man-sluttiness. Clumsy fingers fumbled for a pin in the little dish that was there ~ready and waiting~ for new additions to the wall. Flo’s shaky hand sent many skittering down onto the carpet, but he knew that there was worse than thumbtacks down there. With a bit of difficulty, he fished out an unfortunately stretched, battered, lacy, sad-looking thong… … ... Which was covered in rather a lot of jizz… And then pinned it to the wall; right in the middle. He glared at it, as if demanding the emotional satisfaction his brain had promised. Alas, it didn’t really come. So, defeated, the cripple huffed and retreated to a nearby couch. Florian flopped down to continue to glare daggers at the wall and underwear which had betrayed him so, while (quite against his wishes) his good hand started thumping on his cramping leg. created by ADE! Pb-ified by WILL

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[wynne SHANNON evans]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, border-radius: 2em; -moz-border-radius: 2em; background-image:url(http://i54.tinypic.com/14e9a45.jpg), width: 400px; height: 400px;] baby i'm a different breed ! THIS IS HOW I SHOW MY LOVE, I MADE IT IN MY MIND BECAUSE, BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. THIS IS HOW AN ANGEL CRIES, BLAME IT ON MY OWN SICK PRIDE, YEAH BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. SAIL ! Never, ever before had the words 'you are such a fucking girl' evoked such a reaction from Florian. In fact, no words had ever made the Italian act anything like that. He was... alive. He wasn't a robot, he didn't just respond with a smirk or a little jab right back. Wynne could tell from the get-go that Florian wasn't in the mood for his shit. Usually the older male would at least pretend to humour him, but today... today it wasn't happening. Yes, it was mostly the Irishman's fault. Yes, he pushed the man's buttons knowing full well that Florian wasn't in the mood but it was just how they worked. Wynne pushed, Florian held fast, they never moved forward but they didn't move backwards. For the moment, anyway. There were thoughts in the Irishman's head of carrying on some day, into some sort of civil union or partnership or something of that nature, but for now they were just... there. Just existed. Wynne would never call Florian his boyfriend, it was uncomfortable and it didn't seem right. They weren't boyfriends! Boyfriends were so juvenile and girly, it wasn't them. They were grown up and proper, and just... different. But at the moment, their relationship sounded very boyfriendy. Florian was angry, limping around and being pissy and Wynne tried to just stand there for a while. He tried just ignoring the man, pretending he wasn't so blatantly pissed, carrying on with his day and life quite happily. Then Florian got angrier and so he pushed harder, because that was the logical progression of things. Now Florian was in a state the Irishman had never seen him and Wynne felt like someone had just handed him a live lobster. He felt like he'd been in trouble no matter what he did, whether he dropped the thing or held on. The lobster predicament. So he flitted about the Italian, alternating between bitching at Florian himself and bitching about the cold, as his partner fetched that discarded bag and started off with it. Slowly. If Wynne wanted to catch him, he could do so quite easily. Wrestling the bag from Florian, however, was another story. Though it was clear his body wasn't cooperating with him. A couple of times earlier on he'd held out a hand casually to offer his help without offering it, without making the cripple even more frustrated. But each time seemed to succeed only in angering the man more. Florian didn't want help. He never did. And it was difficult to watch him struggle around on days like today when he was quite obviously in pain and Wynne couldn't help, all he could do was be a bother or fuck off. And somehow being a bother and making the man angry was better than leaving him to his own devices. What if something happened? What if there was an accident and Wynne just left him there to fend for himself? This was not Wynne being a good guy, by any means. He was much more focused on being a knob, but that fear of leaving Florian in pain and angry and alone was lurking at the back of his mind and piping up whenever he tried to leave. So the Irishman flitted about behind the Italian's heels, in only his Hulk boxers and a bath robe, and twittering in the man's ear as he stomped off to the panty wall. "The fuck are you even doing? Those are mine! Would you stop being such a fucking baby, Peaches, you're acting like a goddamn child. Just go have some fucking painkillers and stick a tampon in, you'll feel better." Still not helping. But that bag was very much his! Florian bought those panties for him, not for the panty wall! It was their private business, the contents of that bag, but Wynne was fairly gentle in his attempts to snatch it away from the Italian and that was probably why he didn't ever succeed in retrieving it. All he could do was watch, with a look of mixed disgust, horror, pity and irritation as the man pinned his destroyed panties to the wall. Then he scoffed over his shoulder to Florian, who'd dropped onto the couch. "What are you intending to get across with that, mate? Hmm? Those are ladies' knickers, nobody would believe they're mine even if you told them they were." Still, that didn't stop him from reaching out to pull them down. "Those are fucking disgusting, don't be a cunt." ♥ ♥ ♥ template by hay shay ! @ caution 2.0 lurve yuuuu

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[Florian Emilio la Fabro]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] usually when things have gone this far people tend to disappear No one will surprise me unless you do The Words: NEVER ENOUGH The Outfit: IDK, CLOTHES >U The Notes I'm sorry, this is what my head gave me )8 It was too late. The panties were on the wall and Florian wasn’t touching them. He was fairly sure that there was some unwritten Kappa rule that nobody should touch them. However, if there was anyone to break such a rule and not suffer any consequences, it was the president. It was his frat and he could do whatever he wanted. Florian didn’t care, though. The gesture had been made, and from the way Wynne was reacting, he cared. He cared a lot and he didn’t like what had happened. Good. Florian didn’t know why, but it made him feel better. He wasn’t usually a vindictive man – that involved too much of an investment – but part of him wanted Wynne to feel as terrible as he did. Even a fraction of how he felt! Even though it wasn’t even the Kappa president’s fault. As those grubby fingers reached for the offending g-string, Florian shuffled up from his slouch on the couch. He glared openly at the other man, daring him to take the underwear down. “If they won’t know they’re yours why do you care so much?” sniped back the Italian. On the surface his voice was as smooth as ever, but this time it held an edge. It was cold instead of cool. And, around the very edges, it was the slightest bit strained. The hand which had been thumping on his thigh changed to gripping at the uncooperative flesh, squeezing a great handful of it as though that might help. “Don’t be such a pussy. Leave them up. It’s a wall covered in dirty panties, it can’t get more disgusting than that.” The Italian actually snorted, before looking away in what could have been anything from disgust to exhaustion or frustration. “And a tampon? Fine. You go get me one of yours, though. I’m fresh out.” It was an afterthought, and a petty one, but he wasn’t going to let Wynne get away with it. Usually Florian let Wynne get away with anything. Usually he fuelled the man’s behaviours! He liked them! That side of Wynne made him feel alive. It left Florian buzzed in a way that drugs or alcohol couldn’t hope to match. Especially when one of the Irishman’s crazy whims involved rule (or law) breaking and general danger. Which they frequently did. Or had. He supposed that things had been quiet since the latest shit storm. The reason in him was pleased – nothing was going to happen to Wynne, or to himself, and they could keep going on the way they were, no problem – but the adrenaline addict was not. It was bored, and fed up. It wanted something, anything, to put that spark of thrill spawned from fear back in his life. With another grunt, Florian pulled himself to his feet. He could see that Wynne was going to take the thong down; which he had every right to do. Any other day Florian wouldn’t have cared. Any other day, the cripple wouldn’t have even pulled the stupid stunt; he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at the words which had driven him to it. But this was today and this was how things were going to go. Florian was going to be stupid. He was going to jump off the boat into the shrieking eel shark infested waters. He was going to taunt the starved lion wearing a shirt made of steak. He was going to prod at his irritable, violent boyfriend because he was spoiling for a fight, even though he was a fucking cripple. The few steps across the room back to the panty wall were slow. When he finally got there, standing up was an effort, so he pressed his hand to the wall…his palm just happening to cover the tack holding up the offending thong. “Go on. Maybe then I’ll let you take your period panties off the wall. Fair trade.” created by ADE! Pb-ified by WILL

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[wynne SHANNON evans]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, border-radius: 2em; -moz-border-radius: 2em; background-image:url(http://i54.tinypic.com/14e9a45.jpg), width: 400px; height: 400px;] baby i'm a different breed ! THIS IS HOW I SHOW MY LOVE, I MADE IT IN MY MIND BECAUSE, BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. THIS IS HOW AN ANGEL CRIES, BLAME IT ON MY OWN SICK PRIDE, YEAH BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. SAIL ! "Oh piss off Florian." It was obvious the Italian wanted to make him angry. It was the sort of thing Florian would do. Just... not to Wynne. They loved each other! Wynne was the one who had his monthly period(they both knew it, but Wynne could never, ever admit it) and got bitchy and fought with everyone because he could. Florian was the calm one. Florian didn't give a shit about what his Irishman could do or say, ever! But today he was being a proper bitch and Wynne didn't get it. The man had been in pain before. He'd been in pain the whole time Wynne knew him, the whole time they'd been together since the day Wynne flopped down next to him and stole his rice balls and charmed his way into pancakes. But today he was bitchy and it didn't make sense. So Wynne prodded him, Florian prodded back, and then they would both end up angry. But it didn't seem fair because when Wynne got angry, he fought, and Florian knew that, and he knew just as well that Wynne loved him dearly and never genuinely wanted to hurt the man. Wanting to beat the piss out of him and wanting to hurt him were very different things. But if Florian wanted to hurt more, it could be arranged. Wynne slapped the man's hand out of the way and tore his already destroyed panties off the wall, ripping out the tack as he did. "It's disgusting because they're filled with cum, you shit. They're more disgusting than Tina Two-Ton's shit-stained knickers. Don't be a fuck." The president balled up those lacy panties and stuffed them into his pocket. Nobody would know they were his, but they would ask, and Florian wouldn't lie. If he was angry enough to put them up in the first place, he was vindictive enough to tell everyone they belonged to their beloved president. "What the fuck is with you today, huh? If you're having a pissy day go take it out on someone else because I'm not going to fight with you." The words started out being spat, but by the time Wynne moved on to the next sentence his tone softened considerably. He even went so far as to reach out for the Italian's gimp hand. "Go take your fucking painkillers, lie down and have a nap, alright? Neither of us like you when you're this way. I'm worried about you and I want to be there for you but you never want my help, you never want anyone's help. You're too bloody stubborn to even admit you're hurting and pissy! How the fuck can I be of any use to you when you don't want me to be? Just..." Wynne sighed, heavily. "go lie down." ♥ ♥ ♥ template by hay shay ! @ caution 2.0 lurve yuuuu

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[Florian Emilio la Fabro]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] usually when things have gone this far people tend to disappear No one will surprise me unless you do The Words: NEVER ENOUGH The Outfit: IDK, CLOTHES >U The Notes I'm sorry, this is what my head gave me )8 This wasn’t how Wynne was supposed to react! He was supposed to get mad, like he would have done with anyone else ages ago, and they’d have a fight. Shouting, sniping, or even coming to blows, Florian didn’t care. He needed a distraction. If it involved physical pain, all the better, because that might detract from what he was already feeling. Why would he care about his cripple pain when he had a fist in his face, or his ribs, or wherever Wynne decided to land a punch? But of course he wasn’t anyone else to the Irishman. Even way at the beginning Wynne seemed to have a patience for him that nobody else had the privilege of. Why else would the Irishman have carried him home from Quigley’s that night, when he’d shot the man’s advances down? And then, on the walk, when he’d continued to bicker and be stubborn. Anyone else, Florian knew, Wynne would have dropped like a rock to sober up on the commons. They’d probably have been given a boot in the gut, too, before the president headed back to his frat house. So it was no wonder that, weeks later and now very much involved, the Irishman was displaying that same kind of patience; that care and concern. He was annoyed, sure, but not angry. He snapped, but he didn’t yell. He swiped at the panties on the wall, but he didn’t swipe at him. …and it made the Italian even madder. Florian wanted to shout at the other, but even in this worst of tempers he wasn’t capable of it. It seemed the only thing that could make him shout was being crammed in a car with his boyfriend, his brother, and his brother’s cronies while angry, angry Asian mobsters were chasing them down. He simply pursed his lips and hunched his shoulders up. A bad move, considering the spasm in his shoulder. Again the freshman’s face twisted, this time in pain, and he glared down at the rug so maybe Wynne wouldn’t see. “I’m trying to get you to help!” he snapped, voice shakier than before. “I don’t want to lie down. I’ve taken my fucking meds.” They hadn’t done anything. Well, the relaxants had helped a little, but not enough. They’d taken the pain from blinding to…searing. Instead of wanting to curl up on the bed forever and never move again he was agitated. His brain was working, constantly dwelling on that hurt in his shoulder and his hip and his knee and he needed something to take it away. “I don’t want to sleep, even if I could.” The hand that Wynne reached for was no good, useless today. Instead Florian snatched at his love’s outstretched fingers with his good hand, clinging to the other man tightly. The initial twist of pain was gone from the Italian's face, but his jaw was still clenched tight, trying to keep his lower lip from starting to shake. He'd admit to needing help, but that was all. He wasn't...looking for a pity party, or for any sympathy! That shit was...was useless. He was bloody better than that. created by ADE! Pb-ified by WILL

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[wynne SHANNON evans]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, border-radius: 2em; -moz-border-radius: 2em; background-image:url(http://i54.tinypic.com/14e9a45.jpg), width: 400px; height: 400px;] baby i'm a different breed ! THIS IS HOW I SHOW MY LOVE, I MADE IT IN MY MIND BECAUSE, BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. THIS IS HOW AN ANGEL CRIES, BLAME IT ON MY OWN SICK PRIDE, YEAH BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. SAIL ! Sometimes it was difficult being slow. Florian accepted that he needed help, he was reaching out for it and Wynne didn't know what he could do to help! He'd given his suggestions but obviously Florian didn't want to do those things. It was hard to help because he couldn't understand, he couldn't say he'd ever felt those things that his lover was feeling. He'd been in pain before, sure, but certainly not like that. Florian was in so much pain it made him angry, it made him frustrated and desperate and it was difficult to see him that way. Joking and laughing about other things to distract the man hadn't worked all morning, trying to be nice and understanding hadn't worked. The only forms of distraction he could think of were sex, alcohol and violence and he didn't really think that Florian was going to want to have sex when he was in pain. And though they probably had alcohol in the house, getting drunk this early in the day likely wasn't something Florian wanted either. But it was hard to say what was more likely, between letting his Irishman beat him up and getting drunk in the day time. With Florian, it could be anything. Still, what was the worst that could happen if Wynne just... swung a punch? If that wasn't what Florian wanted, he'd say so and Wynne would go run him a hot bath and bring him some alcohol and drag his computer into the bathroom so they could watch some shitty drama together and soap each other up. If it was, it would explain why Florian tried so hard to get him riled up in the first place. And if it was anyone else, Florian's face would already be ground beef on the Kappa carpet. But it was Florian. The man Wynne would have died for, the only man. The one he trusted more than anyone, with his life and heart and everything in between. The one he genuinely wanted to spend the rest of his life with, despite sometimes feeling like Florian made him boring and bland, like their life wasn't right and he should be out having fun rather than sitting at home with his partner eating dinner and reading for an hour before bed. Wynne wanted to punch him sometimes, sure, but that was when he went and punched Noah instead. Making himself actually do it was difficult. Florian was already in so much pain, hurting him more didn't seem like the right way to help. But he was still pushing buttons, despite Wynne stating he wasn't going to fight. He was still trying for it! Wynne couldn't help feeling what he felt, so much sympathy and almost guilt, but those things didn't stop him from tugging Florian in by his hand and proceeding to turn them, slamming him back against that panty wall. Pushing him down was his go-to move, but that was cheap and it didn't seem fair now. Wynne aimed his fist for places that weren't in apparent pain or injured that he knew of, places that he could feel things like his face, his stomach and chest. It was a bit like a mercy killing, really. Wynne didn't let go of the other man's hand until he took a step back, bouncing on his toes like a boxer. "Fight back. Come on. Swing a fucking punch like you've got a pair." ♥ ♥ ♥ template by hay shay ! @ caution 2.0 lurve yuuuu

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[Florian Emilio la Fabro]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] usually when things have gone this far people tend to disappear No one will surprise me unless you do The Words: NEVER ENOUGH The Outfit: IDK, CLOTHES >U The Notes I wrote this at late o'clock. It will be poo D: Now this was more like it! It wasn’t what he should have wanted from his lover, but it was what he needed. Sure, Florian could have dragged himself out to have a fight with a stranger on the street, but it wouldn’t be the same. They wouldn’t know where to hit him, which spots were the best and sweetest for a fist to pummel. Besides, Florian was in the Kappa house with Wynne. The man was right there, meaning he didn’t have to make any painful, impossible treks. Florian was stubborn, and wouldn’t acknowledge his limitations…but in the back of his mind there was a nugget of reason. Pity that it was buried under the shite of stupidity and desperation. The shove against the wall was unexpected. Wynne had always been a pusher (in more ways than one), but they always sent him tumbling to the floor, not jamming into a wall. Being able to remain on his feet, though, was welcome. Tip him over and Florian knew he’d be like a beetle stuck on its back, but is attempts to regain an upright stance would be far less vigorous. If he stopped, if he fell or let himself think, Florian knew that it would be over. When he went down he’d stay down, curled up as close as he could get to the foetal position. Considering his condition, it would be a left sided foetal curl only – the right would stay however it bloody wanted to. This lack of cooperation made it difficult to fight back. There was a sickening, teetering moment when Wynne let him go, stepping back to invite retaliation. By this stage the Italian’s stupid plan seemed to be working. Each punch had provided catharsis for his cramps. They hadn’t washed the pain away, but built on that solid foundation. You didn’t notice bedrock when there was a building on top of it. Instead of focussing on the scream in his shoulder, Flo could hiss over the blow Wynne had landed where his cheekbone had only just healed (from the crack the Irishman had put there some weeks ago). He could gasp as a well aimed hook shoved the air from his lungs against his will. The cripple took his punishment, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to fight back. What better way was there to vent his helplessness and almost endless frustrations than with his fists against a human punching bag. There wasn’t a care in his head for Wynne as he made his physical rebuttal. Florian knew he’d been in fights with bigger, badder men than a wimpy, gimpy cripple. A punch from him wouldn’t do anything. “So that…” he panted, reaching up to wipe a bit of blood from his mouth, “would be the opposite of how you do it?” Then, bad hand still scrabbling against the wall, not quite game to let go of it, the Italian lashed out at Wynne. One swing, then another, and another. He didn’t care if he hit, he just wanted the chance. If he ever doubted the man’s affections, Florian would just have to think of this day. Yes, it wasn’t a typical romantic moment…but it was a great indulgence. created by ADE! Pb-ified by WILL

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[wynne SHANNON evans]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, border-radius: 2em; -moz-border-radius: 2em; background-image:url(http://i54.tinypic.com/14e9a45.jpg), width: 400px; height: 400px;] baby i'm a different breed ! THIS IS HOW I SHOW MY LOVE, I MADE IT IN MY MIND BECAUSE, BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. THIS IS HOW AN ANGEL CRIES, BLAME IT ON MY OWN SICK PRIDE, YEAH BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. SAIL ! As awful as this was, Wynne almost found himself grinning. Florian was still going, still trying to fight back and do damage even though he was crippled, in pain, miserable. He was still trying. And somehow... somehow that was rewarding. Wynne didn't ever want them to stop fighting each other, because it was fighting that signified the important things. It didn't matter if it wasn't romantic. Wynne knew he was doing something right. If he wasn't, Florian would have asked what the hell he was doing. And if it helped Florian to get beat up a bit, Wynne would do that for him. If it helped the man to fight back and get a few hits in and feel a little less useless and helpless, Wynne would let him hit back. Even though Wynne himself hated to lose. Florian didn't seem like he'd want to be allowed to win, but someone had to lose and they both knew it was going to be Florian. He was in pain, he was crippled as it was, and Wynne did tend to get a bit fighting drunk. As soon as blood touched his knuckles, it was harder to stop. Maybe he had some sort of blood-induced rage. Maybe he was just crazy. Whatever it was, he didn't want it here with Florian. If that meant holding back a bit, if it meant letting the man get more shots in than he was given, that was okay. With anyone else it wouldn't be. "Hey, fuck you!" Like Florian, Wynne took his punishment. He stood close enough that he could be hit, close enough that Florian had space to hit him solidly if he gave his hits a bit more push. Wynne made sure he was close enough that each one landed somewhere on his body. And it felt like this was the first time Florian ever hit him back and meant it. Somehow that hurt more than the blows themselves. As soon as he was given an opening, Wynne moved in again. He placed his forearm across the cripple's chest and used it to slam him back into the wall. This time he was rougher, pushed harder and cared a little less about whether or not he hurt the man. Wynne leaned his weight on that arm and just stared, for a moment or three. His face got sad a lot faster than he'd hoped it would. This was surely a violation of his powers, like Spiderman using his spidey webs to nab girls or Superman using his powers to rob banks. It didn't seem right, abusing his power of superhuman rage for Florian's own benefit. It wasn't right. It was power rape. And he was being forced to use it on Florian. The cripple had started it! And he kept pushing! Wynne opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, stepped back again but it was only to lash out once more, fueled mostly by the sight of blood and the intoxicating feel of skin mushing under his knuckles, the thought of bruises on his fists the next day and the smell of exertion. Most of his punches were aimed now for Florian's face. That was much more rewarding. He liked to see the damage immediately. He wanted to see his handiwork. A few more hits in, though, he stopped. Staggering back, those balled fists moved instead to his robes, pulling them tightly around his body. "I... I'm sorry." There were several things he could have been apologizing for, but Wynne didn't make it clear whether he was apologizing for starting or for stopping. "Hit me. I know you've got one arm that works. I'm not going to hit you any more, Florian, but if you want to hit me you can. Otherwise I'm going back to bed." ♥ ♥ ♥ template by hay shay ! @ caution 2.0 lurve yuuuu

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[Florian Emilio la Fabro]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] usually when things have gone this far people tend to disappear No one will surprise me unless you do The Words: NEVER ENOUGH The Outfit: IDK, CLOTHES >U The Notes I wrote this at late o'clock. It will be poo D: The cripple didn’t care that he was going to lose. He would never be that deluded. A man who didn’t want sympathy and even shuddered at compassion certainly wouldn’t want a mercy victory, either. This fight wasn’t about winning or losing, anyway. For Florian it was about the pain; the distracting feel of those unrestrained fists battering his flesh. His face would be a sea of purple in a matter of minutes, blood eagerly pooling under his skin as it was wont to do thanks to his warfarin. He didn’t care. It wasn’t as though there’d be any lasting damage. The twinges in his face over the next few days would be good. And the horrified looks he’d get would be even better; Florian always liked instilling a bit of shock in people. When Wynne withdrew, it was tempting to lash out at the man. Those punches before had been cathartic in their own right. It was a way to say, without words, that he wasn’t useless. Look at him! Having at it like anyone else could. He was only half there, but he wasn’t weak. Best not to think that the only reason his fists made contact was because the Irishman let them. It was best to push that thought far, far from his mind, tucked away with the other notions that would only do him damage, worse than any punch to the face or gut. “Don’t.” Whether the response was to the apology, or Wynne’s announcement that he’d return to bed was unclear. For Florian it was both. He didn’t need an apology, not for anything from Wynne. Even when he wasn’t mad, and the Irishman was being an annoying twat, he didn’t need an apology. Florian just wasn’t the sort of man who bought into that crap. Which, considering that Wynne wasn’t a man for often apologising in any shape or form was a good thing. Just looking at the other man, the cripple lifted a hand to swipe at some of the blood dribbling from a split in his lip. His nose, thankfully, was free of any stream of blood – three hospitalisations from nosebleeds in the course of three months would have been a bit much, really. The bloody back of his hand was wiped off on his pants, leaving a small smear that probably wouldn’t ever come out. It didn’t matter, though; clothes were clothes and easily replaceable. Other things, though… “Wynne,” Florian started again, reaching out to take a hold of his lover’s arm. His voice was still a bit funny, tense and terse and a little bit rough, but his grip wasn’t too tight. Clearly he was over hitting the Irishman, just as the man was over hitting him. “Come drink with me.” It wasn’t so much a request as an order. One that, clearly, Flo didn’t expect Wynne to follow of his own accord, because he kept his grip on the man’s arm, and started dragging him to the kitchen. “There’s some whisky under the sink.” A place of cleaning products, where no Kappa ever looked. Right at the back of the cupboard, however, was a bottle of whisky he’d bought last time he was in Scotland. Of course, now Flo knew he’d have to find a new hiding spot for his House stash. Or maybe he wouldn’t, if Wynne was upset enough about this to break things off with him. created by ADE! Pb-ified by WILL

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[wynne SHANNON evans]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, border-radius: 2em; -moz-border-radius: 2em; background-image:url(http://i54.tinypic.com/14e9a45.jpg), width: 400px; height: 400px;] baby i'm a different breed ! THIS IS HOW I SHOW MY LOVE, I MADE IT IN MY MIND BECAUSE, BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. THIS IS HOW AN ANGEL CRIES, BLAME IT ON MY OWN SICK PRIDE, YEAH BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. SAIL ! "I don't want to..." It was early to be drinking. Usually that didn't bother Wynne, considering his friendship with Ian Shea. Drinking in the morning as early as 5 AM was acceptable in the Kappa house, but for once the Irishman wasn't feeling it. He shrugged his shoulder, tugging his arm out of his partner's grip. He'd fetch Florian some alcohol, some ice, whatever he needed, but he wasn't going to be dragged. He wasn't going to be pulled along and told what to do. Wynne didn't listen to anyone. Wynne wasn't anyone's bitch, thank you, and already he felt quite emasculated. His panties had been pinned -- and removed, but the fact that Florian pinned them in the first place was a lot more bothersome than Wynne thought it would be -- and he'd been smacked around a little bit, prodded like a fucking caged bear to get some sort of reaction out of him. That wasn't fair. Freed from Florian's grip, Wynne tied his robe shut and stalked into the Kappa kitchen to get that whiskey the Italian had mentioned. He got a cup down from a cupboard and cleaned it on his boxers absently. "Have a seat, Florian. You're a fucking mess." Once a drink had been poured out for the cripple, Wynne set it down on the table and sat down across from him. For a moment. Wynne had hardly sat before he was on his feet again and scouring the kitchen for food. If ever there was a time to comfort eat, it was now. He found some goldfish in a cupboard and began to munch on them slowly, leaning against a counter. "Drink up. I can't drink with you, I have class in a few hours." ♥ ♥ ♥ template by hay shay ! @ caution 2.0 lurve yuuuu

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[Florian Emilio la Fabro]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] usually when things have gone this far people tend to disappear No one will surprise me unless you do The Words: NEVER ENOUGH The Outfit: i have decided defs grey tracksuit pants and probably not much else ;3 The Notes Y THIS SO SAD? Flo needs to stop being a dick D: “Fine,” was the cripple’s grunted response, after taking a seat at the (surprisingly upright) table. He didn’t’ care. He didn’t need the Irishman to drink with him. Now that he thought about it, he decided he didn’t want the Kappa president to drink with him. Certainly not because he planned to get so blindingly drunk that he’d use what limited ability he had left to stand, and he’d probably need someone sober around to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit. And it definitely wasn’t because he wanted to spare Wynne missing out on class because he was hammered. Nope. In fact, even worse than his usual impassive self, he was having a hard time giving any sort of a shit about the Irishman’s wellbeing. Florian wasn’t wishing that he could spring up from his seat and cook some breakfast to distract Wynne from everything that had just passed between them. Of course, even on the best of days he could hardly spring. It would be more of an energetic shuffle With a funny little almost-pout on his face, Florian threw back the fingers of whisky. His nose wrinkled at the burn, as his upper lip pulled upwards. The liquid pooled, unpleasantly warm in his stomach, and seemed to continue to radiate heat up his oesophagus, through his throat until it buzzed in his mouth. In spite of himself, the Italian went back for more. He grabbed the bottle himself and splashed in another couple of measures into this glass. They disappeared just as quickly as their forebears and left Florian in some desire to cough and splutter, to get up and grab some water to wash away the taste and the feeling. He knew that he probably could have asked Wynne for water, but he didn’t want to look weak. Such an action, too, seemed dangerously close to the road of redeeming the morning. Florian was too stubborn, and still too fed up to want to do that yet. The Italian eyed the bottle, considering a third round. He decided against it. Instead he glared at his empty glass for a moment before letting his head drop down, without care, to smack against the table. That would be another bruise, right across his forehead. “You should go back to bed,” he suggested, voice muffled by the table in his face. You shouldn’t watch me like this “I can give you some money for breakfast.” Because Florian certainly wouldn’t be cooking any in this state. And if he wasn’t good for food in one way or another, what was he good for? created by ADE! Pb-ified by WILL

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[wynne SHANNON evans]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, border-radius: 2em; -moz-border-radius: 2em; background-image:url(http://i54.tinypic.com/14e9a45.jpg), width: 400px; height: 400px;] baby i'm a different breed ! THIS IS HOW I SHOW MY LOVE, I MADE IT IN MY MIND BECAUSE, BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. THIS IS HOW AN ANGEL CRIES, BLAME IT ON MY OWN SICK PRIDE, YEAH BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. SAIL ! There was definitely time to go out and grab a nice breakfast, have some proper coffee, get a bit of time for himself and sort his shit out at least a little bit. Wynne frowned. He had things going on. Not a lot of things, but enough to make him feel overwhelmed. He needed to get job prospects opened up, he needed to sort Finn out and find a living arrangement where he could bring him to live with the people who loved him and not be surrounded by assholes like Noah and bad influences like Shea. Not that Wynne himself was a great influence. He needed to figure his life out some day, and sometimes he worried about that. Most of the time he didn't, but he was an adult. Meeting Florian and falling in love with him made him realize that he was grown up. Florian was usually so composed and really seemed to have his shit together. And Wynne... was a mess. But this morning it was the other way around. It hadn't been, for a long time, but now it was. Florian was getting pissed and Wynne was semi trying to take care of him. Kind of. "No, it's okay." The idea that Florian thought he was only good for food was a bit sad. He was good for plenty more than that. Wynne would never actually be able to verbalize it properly without feeling like a knob, but the fact that Florian was a fantastic lay and made delicious food was just a couple of really nice bonuses. He was funny and smart, he put up with Wynne when he was at his worst and loved him anyway. He'd seen the man bleed, puke, witnessed several awful cum faces and actually managed to make the man feel like more than just an accessory, like a throw-away razor. Florian was the only thing at Litton-Colwell Wynne didn't think he could do without. Fuck his friends, fuck degrees, fuck his transcript and all the shit he'd worked for, his reputation, his name. Florian was everything. Aside from Finn, of course. Dropping his goldfish gently onto the counter, Wynne crossed the room to where his partner sat. He bent, quietly, and placed his cheek on the small of the Italian's back and listened to him breathe for a few moments. "I love you Florian." The man was having a far rougher day than Wynne. The Irishman poured him another bit of whiskey and, arms around Florian's neck, put the top back on the bottle. "I'm putting this away. Do you actually want me to go? Or would you rather I stay?" ♥ ♥ ♥ template by hay shay ! @ caution 2.0 lurve yuuuu

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[Florian Emilio la Fabro]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] usually when things have gone this far people tend to disappear No one will surprise me unless you do The Words: NEVER ENOUGH The Outfit: i have decided defs grey tracksuit pants and probably not much else ;3 The Notes Y THIS SO SAD? Flo needs to stop being a dick D: Damn Wynne. Damn him and being so…good. So wonderful and perfect for what Florian needed. Well, not really, Florian didn’t think that, but why did the Irishman have to be so awful and uncaring and almost callous to everyone else, but like this with him? Oh, sure, the giving a shit thing went along with being in love, but…but…. Florian didn’t know how he planned to finish that sentence. He just fancied that he wasn’t the sort of person who needed looking after. This was so wrong in the context of their relationship. He was the one that did the looking after, and Wynne was supposed to be oblivious to that sort of stuff. Or, no. All of Wynne’s care should have been going to Finn. The small boy seemed a much better recipient than a cripple with independence issues. He was a man who didn’t want to be looked after, even when he needed it. Well, no. Being looked after was nice. He’d always let his mother do it back at home. It was the admitting to wanting to be looked after that was the problem. It was the acknowledgement of the deeds that Florian didn’t want to make. And so, if looking after him was going to be such a thankless task, why should he will it on his lover? “I don’t know what I want, Wynne,” the cripple huffed. Finally he turned his head to the side, pressing his cheek to the slightly sticky tabletop. The freshman was in too contrary a mood to know what he really wanted. Likely Wynne would make to leave, and he would call the man to stay. Then, of course, when the president was there, Florian would probably do all that he could to make his existence in the same room unpleasant. “Do what suits you…” he mumbled, letting his face relax as much as it could, eyes closing. He sucked in a deep breath, before heaving it out as a heavy sigh. “You shouldn’t have to put up with me like this.” created by ADE! Pb-ified by WILL

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[wynne SHANNON evans]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, border-radius: 2em; -moz-border-radius: 2em; background-image:url(http://i54.tinypic.com/14e9a45.jpg), width: 400px; height: 400px;] baby i'm a different breed ! THIS IS HOW I SHOW MY LOVE, I MADE IT IN MY MIND BECAUSE, BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. THIS IS HOW AN ANGEL CRIES, BLAME IT ON MY OWN SICK PRIDE, YEAH BLAME IT ON MY ADD BABY. SAIL ! "No, I really shouldn't have to. And I don't have to. Ever." The Irishman frowned again, harder. He nuzzled his face into the small of Florian's back and curled his arms around his neck loosely. "I wouldn't if I didn't want to. I guess I don't want to put up with you this way, but I will. I'm sure I've had enough days like this before." Of course Finn deserved his father's love more. And he would always, always have it. Florian surely understood that. Finn was his son. Nobody would ever matter as much to Wynne as that little blonde boy. But Florian was a close second. Straightening, the Kappa president stretched upward until his back cracked a couple of times. He scratched his stomach absently and glanced around the room, as if hunting for something else to say. But there was nothing. Silence fell over the kitchen and he moved to put his goldfish back in the cupboard. He wanted to eat just to have things in his face, just to be eating and have the comfort of food. After some searching, he found some leftover pizza in the fridge. With the whole box in hand, Wynne sat down at the table across from Florian. One hand dug into the pizza, the other reached over to fondle Florian's hair. "I'm going to go have a shower pretty soon here and then I'm going to go out so you can have some space, all right?" His words and tone were absent and light. "Florian. Look up. Look at me." Sliding a hand under the Italian's head, Wynne lifted it up so he could have a chance at making eye contact. "Come on. You take care of me constantly. You wiped up my puke. You sat in the hospital in your own disgustingness waiting for me." He smirked fondly and dropped his chin onto the table. "You fucked me in a public change room when I asked you to. Peaches, let me take care of you for once. Please. Let me show you that I care about you." ♥ ♥ ♥ template by hay shay ! @ caution 2.0 lurve yuuuu

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[Florian Emilio la Fabro]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] usually when things have gone this far people tend to disappear No one will surprise me unless you do The Words: NEVER ENOUGH The Outfit: i have decided defs grey tracksuit pants and probably not much else ;3 The Notes Y THIS SO SAD? Flo needs to stop being a dick D: Looking up was the last thing that Florian wanted to do. He wanted to stay in this intimate relationship with the table. He could stay curled around it forever and ignore his stupid body and anyone else who wanted to talk to him. If he looked anyone in the eye, they might see the pain that he was in and that…he didn’t want that. Even if his pain was evident, from every nuance of his body language regardless of whether they received eye contact. The Italian held fast in his endeavour, fully intending to stay face to table until his troublesome, helpful boyfriend disappeared, until those fingers lifted up his head and he didn’t have a choice. Florian had to listen to the words, and feel the fingers against his scalp. There was no escape from that soft smirk on those perfect lips or the gaze those bright olive drab eyes. Florian knew that he was trapped. “Fine,” he replied. Even his effort to sound stubborn failed. He simply sounded tired. It was only morning and already he was exhausted. Pathetic. A nap wouldn’t do, but he knew a rest would have to be had before the day was out. “Take care of me, then,” he dared. One broad hand reached up to seize some of those slender fingers. They didn’t hold particularly hard, but Florian liked the contact. Many people would have found the Irishman’s hands disgusting, they were marked and scarred all over, but they were one of Florian’s favourite parts of the man. They felt like Wynne. Nobody else had calluses just like that, or all the hard ridges of scars and the softer peaks of prominent veins. They looked like nobody else’s, either. Florian was almost jealous of those rough, black tipped hands – but he didn’t have to be, because they were his anyway. And it was much better to feel their rough surface on his skin than have the ruined appendages for his own. created by ADE! Pb-ified by WILL

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