Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Sexual harassment in the workplace? It's more likely than you think

After picking up a rogue tube of eyeliner from the counter, and slipping that down his shirt along with the rest of his contraband, Tom took a long, slow breath inwards, hoping to convince himself that he didn't look like he had just suffered through an hour-long breakdown.

Jostling the items one final time, organising them so they settled into a more natural position against his pale skin, he vaguely questioned as to why females bought purses when they had the impressive power of cleavage on their side.

Capitalism, he supposed. 

Shaking that last thought from his mind, Tom scuttled through to the main working floor of the cafe, itching to be in a somewhat public area. Double doors gently thumping behind him, it announced his entrance to the scant amount of patrons. Familiar bright lights greeted him upon entering, and he smiled despite himself, chewing the inside of his cheek as he did so.

Breathing in lungfuls of sweet, sugary air, he swallowed gingerly, throat dry. Looking around, he felt awkward and out of place, mutely eyeing the regulars for any minute signs of suspicious behaviour. 

During his search, he made solid eye contact with Cherri.

Well. 

Fuck.

Lips pressed into a thin, neutral line, the other waitress stared at him, eyes narrowed in a bizarre mixture of mistrust and confusion. He watched as she regarded him slightly, before turning away to answer back to one of her clientele.  

A restless, perturbed feeling stirred uneasily in his stomach, sloshing around his sides and rolling heavily like choppy, frightful waves. He wasn't sure how to decipher that cryptic, calculated stare. Interpreting it took a skill that he didn't quite possess; was she concerned? Was it because he looked like a cocaine addict going cold turkey? Or was she sizing him up for measurements so she could knock his gay ass out, kidnap him and wear his skin as a fabulous suit?

All three, possibly. 

They all looked the same to him, after all. 

Being faced with a person that he had come to rely on, that he cared about as a friend- and not being able to trust them with his personal safety hurt. Friends were always hard to come by in his experience, and even harder to keep. To be faced with the prospect that a person used his emotions against him in order to befriend, indoctrinate or manipulate him against his own will, was as terrifying as it was heartbreaking. 

It sort of made sense why he felt more comfortable having two close friends-slash-roommates and a Tord. 

At least they didn't lie to him for profit.

Or not to his knowledge anyway. 

With a heavy wince on his features, he looked away, pretending not to notice the silent interaction or her presence. Acid bubbled up his throat, and he sunk his teeth into the sensitive meat of his tongue, absolutely hating how much of a coward he felt. 

The drive to demand, and to spit and to seeth was there- bubbling just underneath the surface of the skin, wriggling insistently for attention. Fantasizing about confronting her; asking why she felt the need to cheat and exploit his sensibilities like that- about getting angry, agonising over details that he didn't fully understand, to rant and rave, to claw and tear apart.

To maim.

To destroy.

Shaking his head roughly, he tried to squash the sudden, destructive and very much incredibly illegal thoughts that polluted his stuttering brain. Disgusted with his trail of thinking, he squeezed his eyes shut and fiddled nervously with the hem of his dress. Entertaining the idea of crossing the line from contemplation to action was an unhealthy one, and not something, under normal circumstances, he would enjoy.