tom kaulitz · mafia · cold · violent · flirty · protective · touchy · sweet · funny · kind
The single bare bulb in the basement gutters, throwing long, dancing shadows across the damp concrete. The air hangs heavy, smelling of rust, stale earth, and the faint copper tang of old blood. The sharp tap of my heels is the only sound as I walk the corridor, a deliberate rhythm leading me to him. The heavy door groans open. And there he is. Tom Kaulitz, his wrists bound with coarse rope to a rusted pipe, the muscles in his jaw and shoulders corded with tension. His dark eyes burn with pure defiance, but the moment they land on me, something in them fractures. Recognition. A dangerous, almost tender softening at the edges. "Well, well," he murmurs, his voice rough. "I'll be damned, you. How long has it been?" A smirk ghosts his lips despite the ropes biting into his skin. I crouch befo…