What was the first thing Vroom Vroom Tom thought when Hermione stood in front of him?
I'm sorry I made you wait, tomioness, but I figured you deserved a better answer than just "horny."
So here's a little something I've been working on (without sleep 😩) so I could surprise you. Enjoy! (I hope.)
............🔫 🔫 🔫 🔫 🗡️ 🚬 🗡️ 🔫 🔫 🔫 🔫.............
Tom pulls his lighter from his pocket, flipping it open to light the cigarette half cupped in his hands.
He lets that first inhale travel deep into his lungs, lets that sweet nicotine wash over him, until it loosens some of the tension in his neck. He leans against the lamppost, thinking.
It's only one o'clock, and already it's been a trying day.
Peter is getting on his nerves again. Reggie won't stop running his mouth. The sun is shining too bright. Sev is fucking Rudy's wife again, and Rudy won’t stop bitching about it.
And if all that isn't enough to put him out, he has to deal with Albus fucking Dumbledore, his old college advisor and legal thorn in his side. The old man is stubborn—he has to give him that. And normally, Tom enjoys a spot of torture—a bit of stabbing, a little sawing—the heart-to-hearts that result.
But lately, his apathy has become suffocating.
The truth is, he’d been looking forward to capturing Albus. Tom had been certain that this particular, delicious revenge would be the spice he needed to liven up the daily chore of living. To feel something, besides the crushing force of his mortality descending upon him. Excitement, perhaps. Maybe joy. Maybe even glee. Or that dark, sticky feeling, like fresh molasses creeping over the contents of his chest cavity—that sensation that only happens when he sees blood.
But Tom feels nothing. Not even when he denails him, and Albus cries so hard he's blubbering, and there are all sorts of liquids pouring out of him—snot and sweat and tears and blood—even then, Tom feels only a mild, detached disgust.
It's disappointing.
Perhaps he should just kill himself and get it over with. He doesn't know. Life has become tiresome. What's the point anymore? What's there left to do? He’s already achieved every one of his aims in life.
He cranes his neck, trying to crack it, wondering if he ought to call out to God.
Would there ever be an end to this ennui?
That's when he hears it.
Hears her.
"You!" Pause. "Khaki!"
The voice catches his attention. Like an angel trying to sound tough. He wonders who the fuck "Khaki" is—but he's certain it can't be him. His trousers are beige linen, handstitched in Milan.
They aren't fucking khakis.
Besides, nobody talks to him that way.
And yet, that voice catches him. He turns his head toward the source.
The first thing he notices is the hair. Glorious, gorgeous fucking hair.
Massive curls like a crown atop her pretty little head. Deep, rich mahogany under the full Boston sun, down to her ass. Fuck. She's pretty. Real fuckin' pretty. Big doe eyes, brown to match her hair, thick brows and long lashes framing them.
Not a lick of makeup. He’s grown tired of that heavy club paint girls smear on their faces when they all went out to fuck. He’s not against whores—hardly—but seeing this girl, stomping up to him all angry, hands hidden in her bulky sweatshirt does… something.
A spark—a brief flicker inside him. Not the molasses thing—this is different. It extinguishes as quickly as it came, like a flint igniting in the dark.
It dies instantly, and then there's nothing again.
He’s still staring when she opens her mouth, looking directly at him.
"Come here."
Oh, she's talking to him.
"Pardon me?"
Tom pulls on his cigarette, taking a moment to continue studying her face. He supposes there are a bunch of flaws there when he looks. Her lips are a tad thin—or maybe he's just used to the overinflated look. The tip of her nose is a bit round—but when was the last time he saw a face without a ski-slope?
Do angels have chins that sharp? Wear clothes that look like they'd dug them out of a bin?
He has to admit, altogether, she's rather fetching.
And that hair.
He’s a sucker for hair.
And she has lots of it. He finds himself thinking about how it would feel between his fingers. Would they snag on the curls? Or would they slip through smoother than water?
"I said, come here."
His eyes narrow.
He's not stupid enough to think shit like "she's cute when she tries to sound tough." He didn't become Lord Voldemort by underestimating pretty girls. Pretty girls can be into some pretty dark shit. Pretty girls can be lethal. They carry guns just as well as big buff men with tattoos on their faces.
He’s not an idiot.
"Or what?" he asks.
Her face screws up in concentration, and then he hears a gun click. Tom stiffens, instantly alert, but something is nagging at him. There's something off about the sound.
His eyes drop to the bulge in her sweatshirt pocket—right there—she has something in her hand. What kind of gun is that? The click sounds like a glock 17, but the tenting of the cloth looks too thin for the gen5—
Is that a… phone?
That's a fucking phone.
He's tickled now. That's objectively absurd. Bizarre. Maybe it's brilliant. He's a bit impressed—she's got balls. A massive pair, compared to a few men he knows. But he's also annoyed.
"You're going to kill me?" he mocks, flicking his cigarette. This has to be a joke. Still, he can't help but feel intrigued. In a world that's gotten rather predictable, he feels like he's landed on a trick step.
Something he hadn't planned for.
She snarls. "Get in the car."
"Or what?"
"I really don't feel like getting messy."
Huh? He almost laughs out loud at how corny that is. She cocks a brow and juts her hip, fake gun forgotten for a moment. The outline of her cellphone is as clear as day.
Tom exhales slowly, smoke curling between them as he eyes her.
"And how would this possibly get messy?"
She sighs, as if she's entertaining him, and not the other way around. "Either you get in the car, and we drive happily away, or I remodel the sidewalk with your brains. What do you think?"
He hides his smirk behind his cigarette. He's glad he's still wearing his sunglasses, because his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and it's hard to miss.
“Interesting,” he answers wryly. “Allow me to consider my options.”
“Enough.” She steps forward.
He's… excited. This strikes him as strange and exhilarating in and of itself. He'd spent a full quarter of an hour slicing Dumbledore's ear off last night, and he'd barely felt anything.
He decides he'll lean into this feeling. He doesn't know. Maybe he does think she's fucking cute.
Sue him, if you must.
Cigarette spent, he crushes it underfoot, and raises his hands in surrender, trying to look solemn.
"Lead the way, Miss…"
She doesn't give him her name. All business, she orders him to turn around instead, and nudges him forward with her foot.
Great. She leaves a very noticeable dark spot on his freshly pressed trousers.
Does she even know how hard Dobs works to keep them this brand-new looking?
She gives him a look that communicates how little she cares, then shoves him against the passenger door with her slim hands pressed into his back.
"Get in," she barks at him.
He briefly considers lecturing her. He's the one getting kidnapped here and he's expected to open his own door? Before he can voice his objections to her lack of technique—or even get in the car—she's already walking over toward the driver's side.
Sloppy—real fuckin' sloppy.
He gets in, because, well—he's already a little hard, and he doesn't have much else to do today. He wishes she'd take the ridiculous sweatshirt off. It's about a thousand degrees, and he wants to see her tits.
She gets in beside him, and immediately pulls into reverse. Now, he's not one for ceremony—though, you know, he doesn't mind it—but where he comes from, they secure the goods, so to speak. He stares like she's grown a second head from the side of her neck. This is embarrassing. Hasn't she ever kidnapped anyone before?
What the fuck is she doing?
He sighs, offended. This is grotesque mismanagement, frankly.
It's egregious.
Again, he's kind of important around this town.
He starts to wonder if God is trying to humble him.
"What?" she asks, her glance sliding to him, her voice defensive.
“Aren't you going to tie me up?” Tom demands.
He deserves better than this. Just because she's the most beautiful girl he's ever seen doesn't mean he's not prepared to kill her. Doesn't she know that? She hasn't even searched him. He's got maybe four guns on him right now—plus or minus some knives. He guesses he's smitten, because it doesn't even occur to him to really hurt her. He just wishes she'd put more thought into this.
Make him feel like he matters.
"Obviously," she snaps, putting the car back in park in the middle of the fucking road. "I was getting to that."
He can't help the sarcasm in his response. "Were you going to do it after we'd safely merged onto the highway?"
"Oh, shut up." She snaps, yanking her charging cable out from the cigarette port, clearly unprepared. "Hands together."
Tom holds his wrists together, eager to help. He likes getting tied up anyway. Much like murder and torture, sex became boring long ago.
But this girl is interesting. She isn't scared of him, even if she should be.
Right before she can wrap her beat-up charger around his wrists, he pulls away. Her head snaps up, her expression alarmed.
"Forgot." He pulls off his sunglasses, slipping them into the nook in the armrest. "Please, proceed."
He grins, squeezing his wrists back together, but his graciousness is lost on her.
She stares at him like he's done something to deeply offend, her expression critical as she scans his eyes, brows, nose, mouth—judging him, and clearly finding him lacking. This is very curious. It isn't every day that he’s criticized for his face. His inability to control his bloodlust, yes. His theatrics during torture and murder, definitely.
But not his face, surely.
As if in retort, she yanks the cord as tight around his wrists as she can. The pain sends a jolt of something shooting to his groin, and blood rushes to his cock, now uncomfortably full.
She's grinning now, fully focused on tying the disintegrating cord as tight as she can. He wants to laugh—she needs to cool it—his hands are already going purple—fuck, that actually hurts.
Angel girl glances up again, and their eyes lock.
Something in his chest drops, not unlike the lurch between free-falling and dreaming.
He feels something.
He feels something.
He’s not sure what it is, but it makes his cock twitch.
"Ooh, I like a bit of pain,” he breathes.
She pulls harder, making it hurt more. Hurt good.
“Shut. Up.” She says fiercely, leaning closer. She’s got a smattering of almost invisible freckles over the bridge of her nose. He gets a whiff of her perfume. Floral. Earthy.
Something inside Tom sparks again, and this time it catches. A warmth starting in his middle, radiating outward.
For once in his life, he doesn't know what's going to happen next. Maybe she’ll kill him. Send him back to God with her Youtube glock. Maybe she’ll become his reason for living.
He leans back in his seat, adoration bursting inside him, seeping out of every pore, pouring out of his gaze.
"Yes, ma'am," he coos. Take me wherever. “Where to?”
She turns to catch him staring—submissive, relaxed.
Her lip curls.
"Tell me something, Khaki—may I call you Khaki?" she asks. "Do you normally have such a difficult time shutting the fuck up?"
