Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Gimme them suckies, daddies

Acidic and bubbling, something shifted in his gut, writhing in a restless chaotic energy that lapped coldly at his skin. Churning uneasily in his stomach, it frothed and foamed, welling up to spill bitingly down his twinging sides. Painstakingly, it twisted and folded, moulding into sharp, cruel claws that ripped and tore mercilessly at his insides, mangling them beyond comprehension. Long, thick talons wrapped around his heart, squeezing tightly, lungs raw from the thorny bind that had coiled around them.

Gasping wordlessly, Tom cupped his mouth with a trembling hand, fingers curling around and digging into the pale softness of his cheeks. An onslaught of memories rattled off inside of his skull, tainted by age and a long lifetime of agony. It wracked his core, numbingly persistent, and prickling with stinging bitterness.

His fangs ached.

Echoes rippled from his subconscious, loud crackling screams that throbbed with every off rhythm clench of his quivering heart.

His head ached.

Long strings of itching whispers crackled through the air, hushed cruelty of both the present and the past mixed together harshly, scraping the tender walls of his mind. Parallels of his father's words rolled with those of Pat's, a certain familiar pressure being forced at the back of his eyes, and a tight, dry feeling choking at his throat.

His soul ached.

Tom wouldn't let the words corrupt his future too.

Whirling around, a clawed hand scratched at the glass, a deafening squeal of hard grinding cut across the stiffness of the atmosphere as long, black talons hazardously marked the smooth surface. Lips stretched tight into a feral snarl, he bared his teeth viciously, lethal and clamped together in a predatory grin. Nostrils flared, he breathed deeply, raspy roughly with every lung full.

"Who gives you the right to dictate what will make Tord happy? " It was snarled, nearly incoherent in the way in which his teeth snapped together, "He rules over you, he has the power to control his own fucking life- what makes you think that you know best?!"

A man with a god complex is a very dangerous thing.

Not something that he ever wanted to repeat.

Flinching, Pat took a few bodily steps backwards, meticulously polished boots scuffing against the floor. Face twisted, his cheeks pulled tight as he outwardly cringed, both from the horrid noise and from the open hostility, "Easy, now-"

A growl tore from his throat, vibrating from deep within his aching chest. Stalking forward slowly, Tom grunted, "He rules over you; he has the power to control his own fucking life- what makes you think that you know best?!"

Gulping, Pat did his best to breathe evenly, attempting to put up the appearance of being balanced and nonchalant, despite the fact that his entire body seemed to shake like a leaf. One palm raised in a peaceful, calming gesture, whilst the other slunk behind him, fingering the gun stashed in the waistband of his neatly pressed trousers, "I don't think I know best- I know I know best. This is what he whats, and that is what we are trying to achie-"

Tom crept closer still, black murky voids beginning to glow a grotesque faint red- mixing grossly with the neon green hue that lit up his enraged scowl. "Why can't I just live the way I want to? Why does everyone go out of there way to make me fucking miserable? I just want to be happy- what's so wrong with that?"