Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

This is not a fetish

After practically skipping home (rain be damned), Tom had only a few days to comfortably settle into the life of being a cross-dresser.

First was the voice.

Despite being quite short and relatively unmasculine (apart from the randomly combusting beard trick. He decided that didn't count though since that was more of a mutation; kind of like his eyes), he had always gotten compliments on his deep voice. Past girlfriends had told him that it was rather soothing and comforting; something that they could easily fall asleep to. Tom thought it was a load of horse apples- but he sucked it up anyway as it was a source of positive attention, which he didn't get to indulge in very often.

He had gotten into a routine of practising a higher, softer pitch during the nights. Picking certain time slots between Edd tumbling into bed, and Matt getting up to use the bathroom every other hour. Paranoid over the fact that he could wake one of them up with his near constant onesided chatter hovered insistently over his head, causing him to be extra quiet. 

Progress was slow. 

Being the pessimist that he is, he would say that it wasn't going very well. Sure, the exercise had taught him how to sound gentler, but overall, he didn't sound like a girl. It sounded fake- like a guy turning to pull off a feminine voice, which is exactly what it was, but it still annoyed him nonetheless.

Maybe he could get away with it if he didn't talk too loudly?

Between practising and trying to keep up the appearance that he was totally not harbouring a dangerous secret that mainly consisted of fishnet stockings and eight inch high heels (yikes, that's one hell of an image), he was looking up beauty guru videos on YouTube.

Studying how different blonde basic teenagers did their makeup was boring beyond belief, and he'd actually fallen asleep quite a few times with his phone screen down, laying flat across his sweaty face. It wasn't for nothing though, he'd learnt how to blend foundation and apply basic eyeliner.

Hopefully, he'd be able to translate that into execution.

A lot of his life seemed to revolve around blind hope and shrugged maybes.

Maybe it wouldn't be like that anymore. Maybe this strange little job was the turning point in his life. Maybe it would all turn out to be alright and he magically won't have depression anymore.

Maybe.

He shrugged.

Tom focused his attention on another employment necessity that he had yet to go through properly. It was pointless and overly tedious- but, if he was actually honest with himself, he would say that he really doesn't trust himself to shave his own legs (especially around the ankles; they were really hard to reach). 

Sighing softly, Tom re-adjusted his leg position on the bathroom counter, cringing slightly at the uncomfortable strain in his hamstrings. His skin was slick with shaving cream, and it made it so much harder to keep a tight, secure pose that didn't cause him to slip on the marble as he concentrated. Knowing that this experience was either going to end with him giving up due to muscle cramps, or slipping over didn't comfort him in the least.

It was so hard being a girl. 

Snorting, he carried on, sliding the razor across his skin carefully, hopping slightly when he needed to regain his balance. It fell into a rhythm, and he slowly fell into his thoughts, his grip on reality loose. 

He mostly did this when he was walking, or listening to music; the slow hum of monotony pulling him into a world inside his head. A place where he was in charge; a place that was balanced, controlled, certain.