Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Gay chicken

For as long as he could remember, Tom has always had two distinct thoughts that rattled around within his subconscious. They were usually reserved for the times in his life where he is in great peril, for instance; being stabbed by a serial killer, being shot in the face with a laser, and being shot in the face with a laser in space. One of these thoughts; being the most positive out of the pair, was the fact that he was, in fact, still alive and how miraculous that concept was. Time and time again, he has genuinely surprised himself with how long he had actually lasted- he never truly thought he would get to live that far.

The other thought is the acknowledgement that he was the butt end of a sick, cosmic joke.

From the experiences and life lessons that he had been blessed with during his short, depressing existence, it didn't take much evidence to convince him that it was for some greater purpose. It just had to be. The idea that in some far off corner of space, there was an inter-dimensional hiding away in its little nook, sitting in their armchair, perfectly bored as it channel surfed. Then, much to their monstrous delight, found a seventy year plus marathon of Tom's Shitty Life rerunning on Earth's Greatest Loser's.

Ridiculous? Of course.

Tom, personally, couldn't prove this allegation to be right.

But he also couldn't prove it wrong either.

Either that or, the universe wasn't quite satisfied with making his dismal existence pathetic enough. Maybe it would finally let him rest in relative peace if he simply rolled over and accepted his long, drawn-out torture session.

Thinking about it now, his life really did seem like a horrible, slow burn snuff film.

That's funny. He didn't remember consenting to be the universe's bitch.

-

Tension fizzled in the air, buzzing thickly, like static. It crackled down his spine, inching over his flesh, long intricate branches digging painfully into his skin. Short of breath, his heartbeat lurched in his chest, suddenly very aware of every microscopic touch.

Ivan's large calloused hand tightened its grip a fraction, not enough to hurt, but definitely enough to send a silent, hissing warning. With eyes narrowed, a cocky, threatening smirk easily weaselled onto his thin pale lips.

"Oh? Is that so, Tamara?" His voice had dropped an octave, a deep purring baritone that blended perfectly with his strong accent.

Tom wanted to vomit.

Considering the situation at hand, and how detrimental that would be to his alive status, he opted to shiver instead.

Peaking discreetly over his shoulder, his scanned his fleeting gaze around the room, desperately searching for his saviour. Cherri was watching the scene unfold from a distance, leaning against one of the empty tables, hip cocked and eyebrow raised in intrigue. When she finally noticed that he was trying to get her attention, Tom frantically tried to convey some sort of anxious plea for help with his black lifeless eyes.

After a couple of distressingly long moments, she seemingly got the S.O.S message. Instead of attempting to help, however, Cherri merely shot him a wide, unrestrained smirk, and winked deliberately, slowly, before turning back to her costumer.

An unholy cocktail mix of helplessness, embarrassment, and a lifetimes worth of barely repressed anger swelled up inside of his gut. It sizzled and lapped at his insides, like mildly corrosive acid.

Traitor.

A vicious snarling voice erupted from inside of his head, long sharp talons thrashing around in his brain, claw tips clinking loudly against his skull as it withered unhappily.