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Tomathy Micheals is not a pussy. It is a rule of the universe, a rule of physics, embedded into the world’s code and-
“What’s up, twerp?”
It is unfortunately not followed by the assholes at school.
Rocky - or was it Ricky? Tom really couldn't care less - is back with his bitches. Surprisingly, the ass-nosed guy in front of him actually does get rizz. Except it’s in the form of a bunch of idiot boys. Not that a guy having a boy-bitch is bad, Tom would be clapping if so because he isn’t a stupid fucking prick. It’s just that the boy-bitches are, well, very bitchy.
“Whaddya want?” Tom grunts out, already rushing out of the school gates with Rocky’s cult on his heels. He might’ve already bolted, but his red rags for backpack straps are in no place to be jostled around. One wrong jolt and the last stitch snaps.
Snickering, the upperclassman pulls out an embarrassingly familiar sketchbook from his brand-new luxury bag. “Thought you would want this back?”
His hand is already wrenching after it, but it’s a millisecond away as Rocky yanks it up higher. Tom retracts his hand like a broken gear; not wanting to show any sort of beta-male weaknesses. He can do this. Like a big man, c’mon, Tom!
“Give it back, Rocky. It’s none of your fucking beeswax.” He would’ve snapped out. Except he gets knocked to the ground right after ‘Rocky’ leaves his mouth.
“You think this is a fucking joke? You think you can just mess with me like that, Micheals? Well, guess what, Tommy?” The cronies snicker at the nickname as Tom feels warm pink flush his cheeks from his neck. Rocky blows a piece of his bubblegum before a smirk filled with taunts stretches across his face. “The name’s Ricky.”
Tom hates bitches with explosive tempers.
—
It takes him two minutes to snatch a couple of plasters from the bathroom cupboard and slap it on both his knees that unfortunately got scrapped in his dashing escape (it wasn’t quite dashing). It takes him almost twenty minutes to wash the sticky pink candy out from his blonde curls after lots of scrubbing and cursing that leaves his hands raw.
Well, they were already a bit scuffed after he tried to catch himself on his palms, but that doesn’t need to be said.
After twenty-two minutes in which Tom Micheals got home, the sound of a rickety door clicking open and a sweet feminine voice that drips with the feeling of home can be heard from the hallway. “I’m home, honey!”
Slamming the cupboard closed, Tom rushes down the hall to see his mother putting her keys and coat on the designated hooks. Her brown eyes immediately catch onto the green and purple plasters. Stupid fucking mum instincts she has.
“Did something happen, Tommy?” Her eyebrows furrow as she kneels before the injury. Tom's shoulders relax, shaking his head slowly.
“I was playing around with origami in my lap and ‘suppose the paper just sliced me real bad.” Scratching his flushed neck, he prays to death that the lie works.
Brunette hair shifts along her shoulders as the woman glances back at him with a look that hides thousands of secrets. “This ‘origami playing’ wasn’t occurring during your lecture, right?”
He flails his head up and down. Yep. Definitely.
“Alright,” sighs his mum, checking her phone as she rushes into the kitchen. “I’ll cook dinner for you and then I’ll need to head to work. Management’s being a real pain in the ass, kid.”
Tom relishes her smile, as sad as it is before it drops into pensive thought. “Tommy, I need to buy something for you, don’t I?”
His mum always had memory problems. She told him it was because she fell down the stairs while she was pregnant with him and that was why he was always just a bit underweight. “It was a miracle that my due date wasn’t too far and you survived,” she would always say, a chuckle warming up the room.
Tom always thought it was bullshit for some reason. He would never tell his mother that. He would also never tell his mum that he needed something when money was already tight. That one stitch on his backpack would be fine for the next couple of months of the school year!
“Nope!” Tom shifts from his heels to his toes, bouncing along as his mother turns on the stove with a crackle.
She mumbles something under her breath before shaking her head, brunette waves bobbing along. “Alright, Tom. Go do your homework. I heard Mr. Samuel has an exam for you next week!”
He’s already out of the kitchen and into the hall, tugging his door close with a: “Yes, ma’am!”
“Go walk the Floof after dinner for me!”
He salutes even though she cannot see, but by the laughter from down the corridor, he can already tell she knows. There, in all his majestic and pretentious glory, is the Floof.
The dog sits on Tom’s bed like the spoiled brat he is, pink fur groomed and shining. Tom might’ve found the dog near a radioactive factory that got shut down years ago, but he’s been a part of the family since then! Don’t question the pink fur, Tom can’t wash it out no matter what. The name also has to be said as “the Floof”. Nothing less, nothing more. Tom has bitten someone for saying less.
He might be a pomeranian mix with how small he is, but Tom doesn’t think a pomeranian can chew a whole table leg off. Or have peach pink fur. But all that needs to be known is the Floof is Tom’s dog and Tom’s dog alone. His mother had said so with tired eyes when the dirty animal was brought home a month ago.
Approaching the end of the bed, Tom pulls out some pieces of bacon. “The Floof! Pspspspspsps, you want some bacon, don’t you? Bacon? Bacon!” He sings in a baby voice. Okay, maybe big men shouldn’t be talking to their dogs with a baby voice.
The Floof certainly does not look impressed; a small growl that should not be as loud as it erupts from his throat. Tom can only aw out in cuteness as the dog spins away from him. “The Floof! Come on man, I got this just for you! Tesco is a pain to steal from with Ron running the check-out, you know that!”
Big men definitely use their dogs as an accomplice in theft, that is for sure.
In hindsight, the blonde tween should have not made the mistake he made. But the Floof is adorable with his pink itty bitty fur and the dog hasn’t let him pick him up at all! His mum did say that Tom had to take it slow, but it’s already been a whole ass month! That’s a month he could’ve been showing off his dog in a cute little wittle dog carrier like those rich people!
Kristin whistles a tune as rabid growling is followed by the unholy screeches and curses of an eleven-year-old. Hmm, she might’ve overcooked chicken for the curry.
—
Tom starts dinner with scratches along his arms to add to the other scars lining up to his elbows. He takes it back, the Floof is nowhere near adorable and needs to be bathed with holy water straight from the church’s ass.
The jingles of keys reach his ears as he stops his curry-slurping. “I’ll be back in two hours, don’t call the cops if I’m back in three!”
Big men definitely call 999 when their mums don’t come back home on time.
He can only grunt in acknowledgment as he continues devouring his dinner. His mum’s curry is the fucking best, okay? No, he’s not a voracious kid that may be a little self-conscious about his body. Okay, big men can accept both.
After he washes the dishes, Tom is determined to fix that final fucking thread on his backpack. Dusting off some old sewing kit he nabbed from the attic, he settles down at his desk and snatches his bag up.
Rubbing his hands together, Tom smiles at his supplies. How hard can this be?
Four plaster later and his backpack is slightly more… usable. That’s a good word! Positivity can make the smallest of men bigger, that’s true.
Spinning around in his fun spinny chair, Tom proudly flaunts his work to the Floof, who doesn’t look as impressed.
The stitches are crossed over each other and the threads are frayed, but it’s perfect. Perfect for school and Tom already did his homework during lunch, so his checklist is completely finished-
You need to walk the dog
Unnatural chills run down his spine at such a… foreign thought entering his mind. It had to be him, who else could it be? Just the feeling of something poking through his skull scared the crap out of him. Big men can be scared of getting poked through the skull with their own thoughts.
Grumbling, Tom pulls out his less-than-favorable-beat-up sketchbook. “I’ll do it in a moment,” groans the blonde, seemingly to nobody, flicking open the scratched cover to one magnificent doodle of his mother.
He only finishes setting up his watercolor when the spooky fucking feeling happens again .
Go walk the dog
His hands cramp up towards the Floof, staring lazily from his perch on Tom’s red sheets. Fucking shit, what the fuck, holy fucking fuck, that is not okay.
He can hear each individual crank of his chair as he slowly swivels to fully face the pink dog. “ No ,” he says definitively, testing the syllable on his tongue.
Your mother said to go walk the dog
Tom is a big man. Big men don’t usually talk to themselves in the third person or think in an American accent.
The dirty Americans have infiltrated his mind, holy shit he’s gonna die.
He should call 999. Tell them how the Americans have declared psychological war and that he needs a fucking word with Boe Jiden. He should run screaming because that’s what a big man would do in this situation.
Except it is physically fucking impossible to move his limbs in any other way besides the one towards the Floof. He’s a stuck zipper only able to go down.
“The Floof?” Tom tries, patting his hands on his lap in a ‘come here’ way. “Wanna go on a… walk? Walk?”
The disembodied American apparently decides that is enough because the invisible ropes around his muscles loosen and holy shit, his calves are sore.
He gets ready like any other evening walk, pulling on some joggers and a sweatshirt over a tank top.
As big men usually do, they flex their big man muscles in front of a big man mirror. Tom tries to ignore the tall boy in the mirror, lanky and pale. His blonde hair is tangled and his nose is a little crooked from that incident at his old school. C’mon, Tomathy, you’re better than this. Sighing away from the mirror, he stops his big man flexing to look down at a certain dog.
The Floof barks in that surprisingly low voice for a tiny dog, the deadpan stare always striking a chord with Tom.
He snorts, strolling out his and the front door with the Floof leading him, no leash to be held. He still has a scar from the first time he tried to put a cute little pink collar on the dog, and two more from when he tried to add a leash to the mix.
The Floof usually walks along with him, never sniffing around as a normal fucking dog would. The Floof is not a fucking normal dog, he’s literally bright pink. Tom has yet to find a good dye remover that won’t make his dog bald.
This makes the fact that the pink blur is running away from him - shit, those tiny legs carry him fast - surprising as Tom attempts to dash after the prick.
His feet slap against hard concrete, breath already running out. He should’ve never left his inhaler behind; his mum’s gonna fucking kill him if asthma doesn’t.
Tom barely notices, but he can’t help but feel the… oddness of this run.
He’s run the mile. Exercise has never made him feel more in his body than ever. He could feel the burning in his lungs, the heat of spring on his neck. The gravelly track beneath his feet. All his senses go berserk as he tries to keep up with the world.
The world is attempting to keep up with him now, buildings flashing past his eyes before he can blink. Everything is a blur, except for the Floof.
Damn, that dog should enter some race against whole-ass greyhounds.
The pink dog takes a sudden right and the blonde is ready to turn after him when-
He faceplants right into a chain fence. So hard that Tom swears he can feel the imprints of the metal pattern impede his cheeks.
The Floof has snuck through a small hole in the barrier, staring at Tom expectantly with a slow wag of his furry tail. If Tom was not the big man he was, he should’ve called it quits right then at there.
Lucky for Tomathy Micheals, his weakness in stamina got made up for in his nimble frame. Although his sudden growth spurt has made it a bit more awkward to move around.
It’s easy to swing his body over the fence once he makes it to the top, metal clanging as he less-than elegantly lands on the soil with his ass. Hey, nimbleness isn’t the same as grace.
A quick book read could undermine your honestly stupid statement.
Scrambling to his feet, Tom points an accusing (and grimy) digit at the stupid pink dog. “You!” His sleeve is fucking ripped. His favorite sweatshirt. Holy crap, he might kill this dog.
Happy thoughts, Tom, happy thoughts.
If dogs had eyebrows (maybe they do have eyebrows cause of the whole, y’know, fur? So his whole body is an eyebrow?), this one would definitely be raised in a demeaning gesture.
Tom hates being demeaned by furries.
The dog trots, entering another… hole? Oh, it’s a building. A vaguely familiar building…
It’s the same closed-down factory where he found this pinkalicious dog… hehe, he should use pinkalicious a little bit more.
This is some major deja-vu going on.
Look, Tom might be a daring, handsome, and the biggest big man out there, but even he knows when things look like they’re about to go to shit.
“The Floof!” he calls out, rubbing the back of his neck in the dimly lit and spooky hall. Fucking hell, the walls are metal. And the metal looks a bit worse for wear. “I-I don’t think this is a good idea, Big T-F.”
Tom can barely make out the dark smudge turn in the darkness, an oddly gruff bark exiting the pink dog, as the corroded walls allow the nose to echo throughout the corridor.
FOLLOW ME
Holy crap, Tom might piss his pants. Like a big man, of course. Big man pissing. Yep, mhm. Big man pissing.
Tom won’t stand-stand this abuse! A big man wouldn’t take this offense, not at all! “Listen pinkalicious! Let’s go home, we’re worrying Mum.”
A grating growl can grace his ears, ending chills down Tom’s spine. Chills aren’t enough, more like a whole-ass blizzard got dumped down his shirt. Okay, the dog isn’t happy being called pinkalicious. That’s okay, Tomathy can handle this.
Through his shivering, the blonde doesn’t even notice the sound of little nails scratching on the floor. He doesn’t even notice a bright pink fluffy tail trying its best to wrap around the boy’s legs.
But Tom certainly does notice the change in scenery.
He can’t even let out a few wisely-chosen curses because of how fucking stupid this room is. There’s a big tube in the center; a sort of capsule you would see in those crappy space movies. Hundreds of thousands of wires all diverge out of the top, connecting to various shattered screens that hang by a single hinge on the walls.
Tom could curse at that. He could run out of his stupor and curse this damned world from hell to back for putting him in such a situation.
It’s the dark stains creating a path to the stupid-looking capsule that makes his throat close up.
—
If you asked Tomathy Micheals if he did flight or fight, he would say fight one hundred times before telling you to fuck off for asking the same question one hundred times.
That may be true. Tomathy hasn’t backed down from a little conflict with his school bullies once. He’s even gotten one or two scars to prove it.
I don’t know why the little nerd doesn’t tell anyone about it. I’ve seen the clenched teeth and white knuckles as the kid tries his best to use toothpaste of all things to disinfect a bloody scrap. Resourceful, but quite stupid if you could smell the wipes made for these circumstances peeking out behind the bathroom sink.
Tomathy Micheals’ answer might be true if you look at the surface, but the boy hasn’t experienced true fear . At least he doesn’t remember it. The fear that fogs all your senses, that makes your pulse pump like it’s going to escape your own body.
That’s when Tomathy Micheals shows a perfect example of a freeze reaction. There’s no slapping his worn-out shoes on the laboratory’s floor, no flashing his teeth in anticipation. Only blood turns cold as instincts beg for no muscle to twitch.
I would usually revel in children’s fear, but I have a job right now.
Technoblade sighs as he trots up into the pod, allowing the broken glass wall to slide shut as a white gas enters the chamber.
How Technoblade loves dramatic entrances.
—
Tom was nowhere ready to watch his tiny pink dog enter the creepy-ass murder chamber. Nor was he ready for the creepy-ass murder chamber to expel a creepy-ass murder gas where his fucking dog was.
He finally managed to claw out of his shock to remember that the Floof is his responsibility. He made a very big-man promise to his mother about that and he isn’t letting a creepy-ass murder chamber change that.
So he starts clawing at the glass like a cat that just got into catnip. This is humiliating.
It takes a bit for the surprise to wear off because one moment the blonde is scratching his bit nails on the already cracked glass and the next moment, he’s being launched back flat on his ass on the dirty floors that may or may not be stained with blood.
Yeah, Tom is cool with this. So chill in fact that he doesn’t even throw up at the person that replaced his fucking dog.
A tall man that has the muscles of a damn lion exits the capsule, white gas slithering out to the floor. He has the Floof’s exact shade of pink for his hair which is tied up loosely into quite an impressive and intricate braid. Tom might as well turn as pink as that hair when he notices the fucker is missing a damn shirt . At least he has some ninja pants on.
Scars are splattered against the man’s body like a work of art, one running down his jawline up to the bottom of his blood-red eye.
Tom lets out the most high-pitched scream ever let out in the history of big men.
The dude scrunches his eyes shut in dismay, covering his pointed - pointed! - ears with both his clawed - clawed! - hands.
An American fused with his dog, of fucking course! The dirty patriot must have infested the Floof’s mind and now has taken control. Tom knew he should’ve called 999 right when he heard that stupid disembodied voice!
First things first, the pink son of a bitch needs to have some dignity before Tom kicks him right where the sun don’t shine. AKA Kansas.
He rips his damaged sweatshirt off his body, thankful for the tank top underneath, before throwing it at the bitch’s head. The bastard catches like the casual fucking bastard he is, raising an eyebrow at the offending object.
“Put on a shirt, you fucking creep!”
Tom faces a stained tile wall that he can’t even process in this situation, the gravelly American voice sounding behind him. “Uh, sorry ‘bout that. Here’s your sweatshirt back.”
Tom does not stumble at the impact of a sweatshirt, shut the fuck up.
He turns around to start cursing the bastard out for being a crazy fucker before he notices the strange appearance of a white-collared shirt and the absence of a beta-male chest.
The bitch fucking grins, tusks - TUSKS?! - bared from his mouth. “It is an honor to end the aphelion.”
Tom only has a second to dodge the battle axe.