Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Can you nut

Thomas.

Huh.

Interesting.

Not many people used his formal name- under most circumstances, it was utilised as a weapon, the individual wielding it an obvious authority figure, hell-bent on tearing him down and dominating him in idle conversation. Learning to despise the utterance of his full name, he hated the way most would use it as a tool of suppressing him; the killing blow in arguments. He wasn't completely sure that it could be considered an upgrade from a two dollar crack whore, and it made him like the doctor even less, despite the obvious effort used to placate him.

Although, it was nice to know that violence always seemed to be the key to all of his problems- lacking respect from those around you? Threaten to break their face; simple, really.

It wasn't the first time Tom had to pause in his mental musings to wonder what kind of backwards ass after school special, his life was forcing him to act out. 

"That was never debatable." Tom snorted dryly, trailing his fingers up the side of Tord's throat, scratching soothingly at the nape of his neck.

Skin heaved beneath his touch, warm and shuddering with each deep gulp of air. Muscle flexed subtly, bone jutting out from the heated flesh as he breathed, the various freckles and other birthmarks shifting slightly from the movement. Mapping them out with the tips of his fingers, he absorbed the gentle fluttering that quivered from his pulse point, throbbing rhythmically in a calming trance. 

It almost made him feel better about the shrill beeping that still blared throughout the room. 

Almost.

"Please tell me what that thing is before I destroy it."  He snarled in irritation, snapping his attention to the still cowering doctor.

"Oh-" Jumping slightly at the acknowledgement, McIntyre gestured weakly at the wires connected to Tord's head, "It's a neurone scanner, it senses Red Leader's brainwaves so we can monitor his think patterns." 

That explains why it was so frustratingly inconsistent.

Squinting, he shot the machine a long, disgusted look, "So I really can't break it." 

"Are you just going to ignore the fact that he never apologised to you directly?" He felt movement under his hands, shoulders wiggling as Tord shuffled in discomfort. 

Glancing down, he saw the way Tord grunted thickly, peering up at him behind his lashes, a hard questioning stare simmering within the depths of his squinted eyes. Without thinking, Tom brought his other hand up, cradling his cheek and tenderly rubbing the dip between his nose, committing the texture to memory. 

"Pretty much, yeah." Shrugging indifferently, Tom felt a silent thrill tingle down his spine. Knowing that he was important enough to defend, to fight for, was a gesture that kept his niggling insecurities quiet for a while, the pounding pressure of his temples warping into a manageable hum that faded into a dull roar of background noise. 

Pausing for a second, Tom felt the other swallow beneath his palm, throat churning as Tord rasped a gentle, "...And you're not going to freak out about it?"

"What would that do?" Snorting, Tom rolled his eyes slightly, before shooting him a curled, teasing smirk, "Besides, I only break the hands of men I'm attracted to, remember?"

Grinning back, Tord closed his eyes softly, tilting his face to the side and pressing a tender kiss in the centre of his palm. Chaste and featherlight, his lips lingered there for a second, smile gently ghosting over his skin. Humming quietly, it vibrated his form, sinking into his bones- and filling him with a warm gooey feeling that left him somewhat shaky on his feet.