tom the velociraptor

anonymous asked:

Write a Tomarry thing centered around the dinosaur in a dress PLEASE

I fucking love you guys so much you have no idea.

I hope a modern, non-magic au is okay because there’s only so much ridiculousness I can shoe-horn into this.

“Well, what do you think?”

Tom’s eyes flicked upwards from the canvas, meeting brilliant emerald green and quirking lips that fought against widening into a grin. His neighbor, Harry Potter, held the painting in his hands, eyes gleaming with mirth from behind wire-rimmed glasses that slipped down the bridge of his nose.

Tom rose a brow, pursing his lips. He meant to say that it was good- even if it was an absolute lie, the thing was horrid- but when he opened his mouth the only word that came out was, “Why?”

Harry struggled to maintain a straight face, lips trembling now with the sheer force it took for him to clamp tight over the bubble of laughter. “It came to me in a dream,” he managed to say in a leveled tone.

‘A dream you had while dying of pneumonia?’ Tom thought, bringing a hand to his chin and cupping his thumb underneath it as the knuckle of his index finger pressed into his mouth. Surely, the delirium of fever mixed with the nebulous presence of death served as the inspiration. Or some rather intense medications. “It’s certainly unique,” was the only criticism he offered of Potter’s painting.

“My therapist suggested painting, and I think she may have unknowingly unleashed the next Rembrandt on the world,” Potter said with mock pride.

He had known the younger man fairly well for him having only recently moved into the flat beside him, intriguing in and of itself since the old and charming building was typically too expensive for someone so young. But he had soon learned that he had inherited a sizable amount of wealth from his parents upon his eighteenth birthday, and had been drawn to the flat by the its superb location within the city and to his university. He was quite sociable, and never hesitated to chat with Tom when he saw the older man in the corridor, no matter how stoic or sour his expression.

And yet, despite his amicable nature, it still seemed odd that he would visit Tom to gift him a painting of a velociraptor in Victorian garb. What sort of impression had Tom given off that made Harry think this was something he might enjoy?

Harry took advantage of Tom’s silence, brushing past him and stepping further into the immaculate flat, chewing his lip as he looked around him, the painting held to his chest. He hummed in thought before his eyes widened, and he strode over to the fireplace, settling the canvas atop the mantle. “You should hang it here. In can be your- what do they call it? A focal point?” he asked, unable to contain himself further as a wide grin split over his face.

Tom pinched his lips into a thin line. The painting looked absolutely absurd among the cool grays and minimal décor of his sitting room. He had exactly one painting on the walls- a somewhat prized collection he had purchased from a gallery opening- that hung above the clean and simple silhouette of a black leather sofa. And even that painting maintained the monochromatic and minimal theme he was drawn to, with the brightest color on the stretched and starched canvas being navy.

This thing was garish- with forest green scales wrapped within a flowing pink gown, the bodice embroidered with multiple colored daises. Ringlets of blonde curls cascading from the head of a dinosaur as its jaw was practically unhinged in a roar.

He’d be damned if that thing ever saw the light of day.

“Well, I should get going then. Enjoy your friend- her name’s Patricia, by the way,” Harry said, practically skipping as he left, closing the door behind him.

Tom sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as he made his way to the mantle and removed the painting, looking at it with derision. Technically, it was well done, he begrudgingly admitted. But it was a dinosaur. Dressed like it had waltzed off the screen of a second-rate Disney movie. He would be out of his mind if he left it sitting there any longer.

He tossed it into a closet, deciding to get rid of it properly later.


Tom opened the door on the second knock, causing Harry to startle from the opposite side of it, his hand raised and poised to rap against the wood. “Oh…hello!” he said, rather cheerily as he smiled. “Sorry to bother you-”

“I doubt you really are,” Tom interrupted, gesturing with a wave of his hand to the table behind him, a bag of take out placed upon it.

Harry continued speaking as if he hadn’t heard him. “I thought I heard you out in the halls, and I was wondering if you wanted to come over. My roommate and I have some friends and family over for a game night and I we wondering if you wanted to join us?” he asked.

Tom leaned against the frame of his door, crossing his arms over his chest as his lips twisted into a crooked smirk. “We?” he asked, knowing it was an embellishment. His roommate- Ron or Rob or something of the sort, he couldn’t really be bothered to remember it- hated him. ‘The blokes a bit funny is all,’ he overheard him say when he didn’t hear Tom leave his flat, approaching behind him.

Of course, he was hardly perturbed by the redhead’s aversion to him. He was never keen on company or making nice with the neighbors, as it were.

Harry shrugged, running a hand through his untidy hair. “Don’t mind Ron. He’s a bit of a prat when he wants to be, but he’s been my best mate for as long as I can remember. His little sister has a thing for you is all, and he’s a bit protective,” he said, looking away sheepishly to glance at the apartment behind Tom.

“Hey,” he said abruptly, frowning as he turned his gaze back to the man in front of him. “What did you do to my painting?”

Tom hesitated for only a second before saying, “I was robbed.”

It was an obvious lie, and he really didn’t even intend to come up with a more believable one. It was a terrible painting, and there was absolutely no shame in him confessing to never wanting to display it.

Harry’s brows rose, disappearing into the ebony locks that fell to brush along the curve of his spectacles. “Is that so?” he asked, his voice heavy with skepticism.

“It was the only thing they took, actually. They were burglars of very particular taste,” he quipped.

Harry laughed, a lopsided smile brightening his face. “Well, perhaps they saw the value in it. Certainly worth more than all the other junk you’ve got in here,” he teased, leaning forward to look pointedly around the flat.

Tom scowled, unfolding his arms to grab hold of the doorknob. “Enjoy your night, Harry. And do tell Ron’s sister I said hello,” he said. The last thing he saw when he closed the door was the smile fall from Harry’s face, looking somewhat crestfallen as the light in his eyes diminished.

He was terribly easy to read, like one of the many, many books lining the shelves that flanked the fireplace. A curious story, however, and Tom could hardly stop the slight smile, the chuckle that vibrated within his throat. He didn’t really care for company or his neighbors, but there was something incredibly delectable about making Harry squirm in discomfort.


Tom slammed his door, huffing in annoyance as he shrugged his jackets onto his arms. He should have known he wouldn’t have a peaceful night. All he wanted was to spend a quiet night in, reading some of the new case studies and research papers he had gotten his hands on with a glass of brandy, but it was simply too much to ask. He was really beginning to grow irate with the familiar tone of a call coming from work- something of a surprise considering his colleagues tended to refer to him as a 'workaholic’.

Though he supposed anyone would be considered a workaholic to that lot, preferring to hover within the realm of mediocrity instead of actually using those brains of theirs for something more productive than gossip. It was hardly a crime to be ambitious, to crave knowledge and authority and influence within a desire field.

He was interrupted by his thoughts as a door opened behind him, a voice calling out after him. “Hey! Tom!” He came to a halt, sighing in impatience as he turned to face Harry, his head poking out from the door to his own flat.

His hair was even more disheveled than usual- an impossible feat, really- and his chin and jaw were coated in short, black stubble. It made him look a bit older, and a bit handsomer if he were being honest. In a rugged sort of way, not at all like Tom’s own polished and well-kept appearance.

“Yes, Harry?” he drawled, lips slipping into a smirk as Harry’s jaw clenched at the sibilant lull of his voice.

“Where are you headed this late at night?” he asked, swallowing thickly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Tom regarded him for a moment. “If you must know, to work. Emergencies hardly wait for appropriate office hours,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

He made to turn around again, his head twisted away when Harry stopped him. “Oh good, you can bring it to your office then!”

Tom sighed, closing his eyes in reprieve as he took a deep breath. He really considered just walking away, leaving the younger man behind without even a farewell. After all, there were far more important matters to attend to. Namely, an A&E overfilled with victims of a mass shooting. But he found himself turning back to face Harry, brows knitted. “Bring what to my office?”

Harry ducked back into his apartment for only a second, returning to the corridor with a canvas clutched in his hands. “I made you a new painting! And I thought that perhaps it would be safer in your office at work,” he said, taking several steps until he stood directly before Tom, gripping either side of the painting as he held it in front of his chest.

He practically gasped at the horrendous things, dark blue eyes widening as he skewed his lips in unmasked disgust. Three velociraptors sat around a table, tufts of hair below bonnets. An elaborate spread adorned the table, flowers within a glass vase in the center as trays of biscuits and scones  and a large, floral tea pot sat around it. Long claws emerged from lacy and billowy sleeves as they wrapped around delicate tea cups.

Harry was grinning in almost manic delight, shoulders shaking with just barely disguised laughter. “Well, do you like it, Tom?” he asked.

Tom pursed his lips, jaw clenching in annoyance. “Actually, if I’m being perfectly honest, Harry, it’s absolute rubbish,” he said, speaking in a voice that was colder than ice, as if his words were venom. The sudden and unexpected malice within them was enough to make the joy slip from Harry, his mouth falling into a frown as green eyes wilted.

“Oh,” Harry said, reeling from the cruelness.

“The only thing that you are worse at than painting- and by a large margin, though that is in no way a compliment to your artistic abilities,” he began, actually struggling to keep the smile from his face as Harry continued to sulk, shoulders slumping. “Is flirting.”

He snapped forward at that, cheeks burning into a bright crimson as he stammered. “I am not flirting!” he lied, eyes darting to the left for a brief second.

Tom chuckled at the obvious tell, taking a step forward so that he loomed over the shorter man. “Oh, but I believe you are, and between you and me, your hands are better left for more…arousing activities than arts and crafts,” he purred, mouth pulling into a smirk as Harry’s eyes widened at the insinuation, his jaw slacking open.

Without another word, Tom turned, striding down the corridor as his neighbor gaped unattractively in his wake.

I want to abandon all my stories and just write this. I want to write a sequel, and a sequel to the sequel, and just never stop writing about the gloriousness of Harry painting awful dinosaur portraits in a terrible attempt to flirt and Tom tearing him down with his suaveness.

Also, I always headcanon Tom as a surgeon in non-magic AU’s (it’s a field that requires a lot of study and determination, can be very rewarding in terms of professional achievements and recognition, and I imagine holding someone’s life in his hand satisfies his God Complex)

Also also, I’m sorry if you’ve sent me a prompt and I haven’t gotten to it yet. I promise I will, but sometimes it takes a bit for the prompt to speak to me, and this one sang at me like a soul singer pouring her heart out.