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angeli-marco-writes · 4 years ago

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Tom Hiddleston - BAFTAs

A/N - It’s time for Tom Hiddleston head-canon time because I cannot keep my mind quiet. Please enjoy, I have no idea what this is. :) I do not know Tom Hiddleston, nor do I claim to. This was inspired by Tom at the BAFTAs.

Warnings - Panty-thieving, heavily implied smut, cursing, slight public embarrassment? 18+ rec.

Summary - Tom thieves your panties after you rile him up the night of the BAFTAs, and he doesn't anticipate the consequences of keeping underwear in his pocket on the red carpet.

Tom has a huge night. He’s at the BAFTAs, presenting, and you’re going on the carpet with him, partly to make up numbers but mostly because you’re his girlfriend and therefore he insists you be everywhere important with him. :’)

However, from the second you put on your chosen gown, things have gone severely downhill. And through no fault of your own. Well, debatable...

He growled like a feral animal the second he saw you at the bottom of the stairs, your dress hugging you in all the right places, and in his favourite colour, perfectly matching his monochrome suit. His grip on your arm became intense, even walking from your house to the car.

He looked fucking incredible in his suit with his hair long and his beard that tickles you all the right ways, and it makes him look so tall. You weren't sure how you'd be able to keep your hands off him, and you don't. You didn't even plan on restraint.

When you got in the car, that’s when things started to get worse. He wouldn’t tear his eyes off you, his hand gripping your leg brutally, his blunt nails digging into the satin and gossamer of your dress.

“What’s wrong Tommy?” you asked coyly.

“You know what.” He snarled.

“Then do something about it.”

Definitely the wrong thing to say. You’ve never heard him emit such a sound, one of such anger and barely tethered restraint.

“I have a suit to consider, my darling. It’s very expensive.”

“I dare you.” You whispered. Only because he’d be disappointed if you didn’t try.

You moved your hand to his leg next, dancing your fingers along the inner seam of his trousers. His entire body shifted, his legs clenching, his lips pursing into a thin line. Then come the featherlight kisses to his neck, nothing more than a sign of affection. But when you brushed his sweet spot, it was over.

“Stop fucking riling me up, would you?” he practically shouted. Even his driver discreetly coughed. Tom never swears.

“Tom I’m doing nothing.” you answered steadfastly. “This is what I always do.” And it was true. This is what you do every time he has an event, gently caressing his legs and kissing his neck and throat every so gently. But this time, apparently, it got to him.

“Yes but this time it’s different, ok?”

“How?”

“Because I want to take you over my fucking knee and spank you for looking so sexy, but at the same time I just want to ravish you the way I couldn’t at home because of these damn awards.”

You just looked up at him, blinking with doe eyes, thinking up your next move, your next words, but your fingers grazed him in just the right place without even meaning to, and you leaned in to peck him on the lips. You were done for the second you kissed.

“Fuck this,” he purred, slamming his mouth hotly onto yours, pushing you back onto the seat, yanking your panties off from beneath your gown, his hands instantly exploring you.

Your driver did two extra blocks so you could get yourselves sorted to actually step out and enter the event looking halfway respectable and as though you hadn’t just been fucking in the back seat.

That’s how you got here. On the carpet with your panties in his pocket, little more than a soaked, shredded scrap of silk in amongst his handkerchief and mints and phone.

You swan around on the carpet, posing with a coy smile on for all the photos, kissing Tom's cheek innocently from time to time. You keep quiet, simply his girlfriend, but you can feel his eyes on you even while he's taking photos.

You stop for a few interviews as well, only speaking when spoken to in order to profess your love for Tom and how talented he is, how honoured you are to have been invited, how wonderful it is that he's presenting a segment tonight.

Until you reach the last interview on the carpet, and in the cold, Tom turns away to blow his nose so he doesn't sound weird.

"What you got in there?" The interviewer asks, noticing that it's hard for him to get his hankie back into his pocket for some reason.

Sadly, in the moment, the one thing he direly needs to remember slips his mind, and he paints a smile onto his face, and begins to pick items out one by one.

Breath mints, throat lozenges, a tissue, air pods, a mask, a mini wallet, house keys, a pen, and...

"Oh my God." you mutter under your breath when he withdraws the last item.

You bury your head into the shoulder of his blazer, your eyes scrunched shut, but you feel the bright crimson blush burning his skin and clawing up his cheeks. You've never cringed so hard.

"Well, um, yes, so... Thank you very much, and we— yeah, we'll be off. Enjoy!" His voice is so strained on his hasty words and his clutch on you is so tight it starts to hurt as he steers you far away, and pelts it down the rest of the way, off the carpet and inside.

You're pinned against the wall the second you're out of sight, your panties balled up in his hand as he raises them to his face momentarily.

You're gushing and whimpering with his hold on your dress, and you're so exposed with just your dress on, but can't even care.

"Tom," you whisper, leaning in to kiss him. He greedily kisses you back, and is bundling your skirt up a second later.

“Think it’s funny do you? I’ll show you just how funny it is.” he growls into your ear, and you're absolutely finished.

It's safe to say you're just a smidge late for the main event...

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angeli-marco-writes · 4 years ago

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Tom Hiddleston - Stripped Sunday

A/N & WC - I came up with this concept ages ago and only just got around to writing it, though it’s slightly short. I do not know Tom, nor do I claim to. 2k.

Warnings - Swearing (that's now just a given), definitely suggestive and nsfw but nowhere near explicit, just mentions of sex, nudity too. And unknowing exhibitionism I guess? 16+

Summary - Sunday's are always the best, especially when you and Tom walk around the house nude, but it's been a while. Too long a while. So, obliviously, you take matters into your own hands...

THOMAS WILLIAM HIDDLESTON IS A SIMPLE MAN, believe it or not. He likes meals he can cook in fifteen minutes, he likes his tea with only a splash of milk, he likes the simple pleasures of nature. He likes morning runs and evening walks, re-watching movies he’s seen a dozen times, cuddles on a cold night. But most of all, he likes it when you walk around nude.

It might just be the one singular thing in the great mystery of life that is inexplicable to him, the one thing he enjoys so bloody much he daren’t speak of it, lest he risk losing it. Just the sight of your beautiful body keeps him up night after night after night when he’s working away, plotting and planning ways to ensure he never forgets it for the second he returns home. He can’t even begin to explain the things it does to him.

So, he set up a Stripped Sunday, with the basic premise that you both have to walk around in your birthday suits all day. It’s essentially his unique, perverse, inventive way of seeing you naked all day once a week. Not every Sunday, naturally, but just on occasion, when he’s not working, he’ll jot it down on the calendar. Nothing too glaring, in case someone catches a glimpse of his calendar, but just scribbling down a winky face in a Sunday space, and you know what you’re in for.

In all honesty, you love it just as much as he does. It’s hard not to. Seeing him walking around the house with not a scrap of clothing on all day does things to you you’ve never been able to put your finger on—or his. If you were to get pregnant, Stripped Sundays would be the culprit with the amount that the two of you shag in a single day. And he always seems to have another round in the bank to wake you the morning after, hungover on dripping lust.

However, it’s been far too long without one of these days, you think to yourself. And you know that there are no plans for the day, seeing as there’s nothing in the diary or the calendar, where—upon Tom’s own decree—all arrangements have to be written down. Seeing as you and Tom have a somewhat secret relationship, one certainly sheltered from the press, and no one knows you’re together, let alone live together, keeping all plans written down is imperative. His work meetings are always good reasons for you to get out of the house for a few hours.

Today, however, Tom seems to have made a mistake. Today’s meeting utterly slipped his mind, and he completely forgot to tell you, let alone jot it down, that he was having a casual meeting with a few co-stars to discuss future production of some sort—of what, he was entirely unsure, since this was texted about weeks ago, now. Nothing too major, though.

Logically, Tom thought that, with how late you were currently sleeping, and how much you enjoy your lie-ins, he’d be wrapped before you woke up, and even if that wasn’t to be the case and you wake up, that you’d have the sense to dress, or even call for him at the very least, before going downstairs.

You aren’t so lucky.

—

Waking up to an empty bed is never much fun. Usually if Tom wakes up before you, he’ll only slip out to put the kettle on, or fetch a new book to read from the library while he waits for you to stir naturally… that is if he isn’t waking you up in other, more pleasurable ways. At most, if he does have plans and doesn’t want to wake you after a late night, he’ll leave you a lovely note, a voicemail, and a thermal mug of tea.

Today, however, you can smell the coffee machine on—no wonder after the late, and rather energetic night you had—and hear the machine whirring, signalling that Tom likely hasn’t long been awake. That’s when the gears begin to turn and your plan begins to formulate, a completely devious idea that creeps into your mind and quirks your lips into a smirk. No matter how enticing the idea to nuzzle back into the pillows is, your need for Tom is overpowering your clawing need for sleep, especially with your primal instincts telling you he’s within grabbing distance, his aftershave still on the sheets you’re wrapped in. So, you strip his shirt, now perpetually appropriated by you, off and get out of bed, stretching as you go, beginning to make your way downstairs.

“What’s that?” Tom hears someone ask.

Not hearing your footsteps on the squeaky stairs over the whirring of the coffee machine and the layered discussions, including his own laughter, he simply replies, “Probably the dog.”

You, however, aren’t lucky enough to hear this brief conversation before your bare feet land on the cold hardwood floor, sending chills throughout you that don’t seem to even mildly combat the overwhelming heat building all throughout you. With just a few more steps, keeping your footing light and avoiding Bobby’s various chewies and toys littered all over the floor, you’re entering the kitchen in nought but your birthday suit. Utterly, completely in the buff.

“Morning baby,” you call out, yawning, your eyes fluttering shut, your jaw wide.

Except, instead of the warm embrace and slatherings of kisses that you expect to receive, or even a simple “Good morning, Princess,” you’re welcomed with a deadly silence, a stillness you can’t quite comprehend.

Your eyes fly open in shock, opening to see three people, mildly familiar faces, with mouths agape and eyes wide, sitting around the breakfast bar with mugs between their hands. Tom looks as stunned as you’ve ever seen him, over by the coffee machine, his hands trembling. With a fixed gaze of his baby blue eyes, so piercingly alarmed, he looks you up and down, his eyes blazing over your nude form, his kissable mouth practically watering at the mere sight of you.

That’s before it clicks with him, the dire situation, and alarm bells begin to blare inside his head, causing him to jump into action. Almost instantly, he’s pulling his shirt off his strong arms and muscular torso with lithe fingers, and is tugging it over your head, covering your naked torso.

You can already feel the blush on your cheeks, your skin burning from the bruised base of your throat to the pierced tips of your ears, the blood in your veins rushing around so violently that it drowns out any other comments or noise within the room, within the situation, but you’re brought back to reality when Tom’s strong, callused hands fall to your arms, clasping the flesh before he’s all but lifting you off the tiled floor and steering you back out of the room. It snicks shut behind you, but all you can focus on is the kiss he gives you, slanting his thin lips over yours so intoxicatingly that you’re able to forget your humongous disaster, if only for a second. There’s an emptiness the second he stops kissing you, and you’re able to hear the previously shut out gossip from inside.

“Sweetheart, what the hell was that?” he commands, his tone soft.

Despite the austere authority he so naturally demands in a room, he doesn’t sound angry whatsoever. If anything he’s just a little exposed, his private home life revealed to people when he wasn’t in the least bit prepared for once in his lifetime, with a definite undertone of irritation, mostly that he can’t have his way with you instantly. His blood is roaring, his stomach an explosion of swarms of butterflies, his core pulsating. He can’t tear his eyes away from you, even now you’re covered, your hardened nipples poking through the fabric.

“I— I saw the calendar was empty, I wanted to impress you, have a nice Sunday because it’s been so long,” you confess, shuffling your feet on the floor, unable to meet his blue gaze boring into you, “I’ve felt… distant from you recently, you’ve been working so much. I don’t know,” you shift anxiously, tugging on his shirt wrapped around you, “I love you, I didn’t wanna lose you. I thought you’d like it.”

“Baby,” he says, “I love you and this so so much. Of course I like it!”

You let out a feeble cry against his chest, his arms knotting around you and tugging you into his chest in one swift movement. His hugs, the way he holds you and cradles you, always make you feel better, no matter what your troubles may be.

You sniffle a little, “Really?”

Any trace of hardness in his face just dissipates and is replaced with sympathy, empathy, love.

“I truly wish I could take you right now, Darling, and if they weren’t here, I’d be fucking you on that breakfast bar and you know it.” He sighs deeply. “But, I didn’t put down a special Sunday for a reason, love.” Leaning down, he kisses away your wry tears, and then the tip of your nose. “You are so thoughtful. It’s all my fault though, I must’ve just forgotten to write this down.”

How can you be mad at him when he’s being so thoughtful and heartfelt, confessing his mistake even when it was your rash thinking that’s gotten you into this mess?

Once you calm your breathing down, though, you realise that you’re actually not particularly phased by this at all. You don’t mind this; it was the sheer shock that passed over Tom’s face, the flash of terror he must’ve felt with his work colleagues in the room with him that scared you so. You know well enough that it’ll be a huge knock—monumental, even—for him, if this gets out. Your worry for your treasured boyfriend takes power over any of your own misgivings.

“I’m really sorry, Tom.”

“Don’t be,” he says hastily, “can you please pop up and get dressed, though, darling? Just some shorts, I don’t want you to feel exposed.”

You let out a soft chuckle, nodding, stepping away from him to make your way upstairs. Before you’ve taken so much as a step, though, he tugs you back by the bottom of his shirt, and ravels you into a searing kiss, everything he wants to say passes from his lips to yours.

—

You return a couple of minutes later, dressed simply, comfortably, his shirt in your hands, you find him waiting for you, standing outside the door with his hands clasped at his front. He greets you with open arms, prompting you to take his hands as he leads you back into the kitchen, your eyes connecting in a secret agreement before stepping inside.

The air is rife with anxiety, three panicked faces staring back at you, but thankfully, you’re able to recognise these people as ones he’s worked with for a while, people he knows really well; confidantes and friends more than co-stars or colleagues. However, by the inquisitive glint in their eyes and their parted mouths, you imagine they’ll still have a lot of questions, and this’ll still be a hit for Tom.

He wraps his spare arm around you, his head bowed as he meets the dead faces staring at him. That’s when you begin to wonder if something else has happened.

“Baby, everything okay?” you ask, cupping his jaw, caressing your thumb over the scruff of a beard shadowing his bone structure.

That’s seemingly when it hits him, his face paling, blanching, his grip around you loosening.

“It’s a good job you never got over the threshold, darling,” he says breathlessly, “or I’d be in much more trouble.”

You look to him, eyes searching his face imploringly as he viciously gulps. “We were live on Instagram.”

“SHIT!”

Well, it looks like Tom’s girlfriend is public knowledge. You can’t mind, though not as he dips his head and kisses you hotly, heartily. With this passion, the second these people leave, Stripped Sunday might just happen after all.

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