A/N: Hello lovelies! Just a little something that popped into my head, thanks to my current Loki/Tom obsession. I own nothing and no one, as usual :) I hope you all enjoy this fluffy piece! 3

It had all started after your very first meeting. You remember, the one where you had begged and pleaded over several emails with Luke for an interview with Tom (at a place and time of his choice) for an article you were writing for UNICEF. Having only been on the job for a few months, you were scrambling to find any eye-catching tags you could in order to garner more awareness for UNICEF. Obviously, you had assumed that since the cause was close to Tom's heart, he would be jumping at the chance to talk to you.

But a little nobody from the deep bowels of the UNICEF PR team would have to wait for him to return from two press tours, five more important interviews/photo shoots, and one very sexy Jag commercial before his schedule could be pried open to accommodate you. You muttered and groused and generally complained to anyone who would listen (the list was quickly becoming shorter and shorter) until the blessed day that an email popped up on your computer that promised you half an hour and not a minute more at a small café in Camden the next day. Confirm or lose the appointment.

You've never confirmed something so fast in your life.

You might have broken your keyboard.

The moment you walked in and saw Tom sitting there at the back of the café, already nursing a cup of tea and fidgeting with his napkin, you felt your stomach lurch. You gave yourself a stern talking to, ordered yourself not to do anything stalkerish or restraining order-worthy, let yourself smile widely, and strode toward him with purpose. "Hi Tom," you said as he stood up from the table and shook your hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you."

Be punctual, be calm, be friendly. Check, check, check.

He blinked, taking in everything from your adorably curly pixie cut to your wide smile and vintage heels before he broke out into a dazzling smile of his own. You had opted for the 40's look you usually dressed in, leaving the tight dresses and sky-high heels for every other woman in his life. You just knew you'd face plant the first chance you got, so better to be safe (and you) than sorry. He was murmuring that it was lovely to meet you as well, and then somehow, magically, you were both seated and the waitress was bringing you your own cuppa as you began to chat.

Half an hour later and only two questions in, you frowned at your notebook, teeth worrying your bottom lip. The two of you had gotten so carried away talking about UNICEF's new projects and your mutual love of West End that your original task had almost been completely forgotten. How were you going to write a cohesive article now? You supposed you would just make do with the answers you were given and be grateful.

"What's wrong?" Tom asked, noticing your lip biting.

"It's just that we got so carried away with good things, I forgot to actually ask about the great things," you joked. You looked at your watch again, and tapped at the face to emphasize your adherence to your time limit. "I was given very strict instructions not to go over 30 minutes. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of Luke's wrath, so I guess this is where we need to stop. Thank you so much for your time. Truly, I appreciate you sitting down with me."

Tom simply grinned, barely glancing at his own watch before he caught the attention of a passing waitress and requested two more cups of tea. "I have a few more minutes." He grinned at you over his nearly-empty cup. "I always have a few more minutes for a charming woman with a passion for my favorite things."

You grin back at him and shake your head teasingly. "Shh! Don't say that too loudly, or your entire fan club will be after you about UNICEF and Shakespeare and theatre and tennis and The Jungle Book."

"Know a fair bit about me, do you darling?" his wide grin was only getting wider as he watched you turn red and nearly choke on your own tea.

"Only as much as the next person," you defended weakly. You made a big show of straightening your writing area in front of you and clicked your pen dramatically. "Now, Mr. Hiddleston, be a good boy and answer my questions." You turned pink at the bossiness in your tone, but he just chuckled and leaned back in his seat, getting comfortable.

"Fire away," he challenged. Oh this was going to be fun.

Forty-five minutes later, your interview was over. Tom had answered every one of your questions in such lovely detail that you could barely wait to start writing. It was going to be a great piece, you promised him. "I look forward to reading it," he told you, gazing down at the mass of pencils, pens, and scraps of paper that you were haphazardly shoving into your satchel. He walked you out of the café and offered one of his famous hugs, which you willingly stepped into. With your heels on, you were just the right height to rest your chin on his shoulder, and you felt his head dip down to rest on your opposite shoulder. He took a deep breath-did he sniff your hair?-and squeezed you tightly before stepping back and smiling down at you.

"I look forward to the article."

"Same here. Me too," you replied dumbly. He waved goodbye and took off at a loping pace around the corner, leaving you standing there, enveloped in his scent, and feeling tingly down to your toes.

"Who are you?" a snippy voice demanded, surprisingly close to your ear. You jumped and turned to find a short little woman in the very same tight dress and heels you had sworn off of, with her cell phone out and a bad attitude at the helm.

"Excuse me?" you asked, more surprised than anything else.

"I said who are you," the woman repeated. She nodded in the direction Tom had just gone and added, "That was Tom Hiddleston. What were you doing with Tom Hiddleston?"

You shook your head and pasted on your best confused face. "I don't know what you're talking about," you told her, "that was my accountant. Not that it's any business of yours. Who are you?"

The little woman huffed, obviously annoyed. "Tricia Madlowe from The Daily Mail. And I know what I saw. That was Tom Hiddleston. Look, I'll give you 500 pounds cash up front if you tell me what exclusive you got with him."

Irritation flickered across your face before you shook your head stubbornly. "Look, Tricia, while that's a very generous offer, I'd hate to waste your money on a casual check-up between my finances and the man who yells at me every time I use my tax return on shoes. I don't know what you think you saw, but I can guarantee you're wrong. Sorry darling." Tricia wasn't paying attention to you anymore. Instead, she was staring at something over your left shoulder.

You turned and saw Tom standing there, watching you curiously. Your confused face must have broken him out of his trance because he held up his finger and disappeared into the café, returning a moment later with his credit card. "That wouldn't have been good," he said lamely.

You stepped in front of Tricia's camera phone, blocking the shot she was about to get, and tsked at him. "See Patrick, even the hoity toity accountants make mistakes sometimes. Why you gotta always come down so hard on us little guys?" The mirth in his eyes made your stomach do glorious flips and flops, giving you the courage to push Tricia's hand down as she tried to take another photo. She wobbled on her stilettos. "Careful, Tricia," you said sternly. "Wouldn't want you to break a heel." In a lower, not-quite-threatening-but-getting-close voice, "Leave him alone. I'm a journalist as well and you do not want to play this game with me."

Brightly, you whirled on your trusty (thicker) block heels and took Tom's arm. "Come, Patrick," you announced lightly. "You can yell at me about my spending for another two blocks." You happened a glance over your shoulder before you both rounded the corner and saw Tricia glaring at you, but her phone hung down at her side. You grinned, adrenaline pumping through your system. You'd just gone toe to toe with The Daily Mail. You! A nobody who never raised their voice to anyone. Ha!

Tom was studying the Cheshire cat grin on your face with something akin to awe. "You know she recognized me, right?"

You gave him the same confused face that you had given Tricia. "Do you also manage her finances? Patrick, are you…are you working for someone other than my lovely self?"

Tom smiled indulgently, but there was something of a wariness behind his eyes. "That was a lot of money to turn down," he said.

You began to pull your hand away from his arm, but he held you close, so you simply shrugged. "I didn't ask for an interview so that I could go and blab about you to the next available person. I'm not that kind of journalist. That's why I took a job at UNICEF. Journalism degree fulfilled, without the messiness of prying into every damn scrap of somebody's business. I mean really, can you not just have a bite to eat with another human being without having your motives questioned?" He was still staring at you, so you huffed and added, "I like you. I think you're a great human and no money is worth that loss of trust. I'm just sorry you had to see that."

You both walked in silence for a few moments, your heels clacking against the sidewalk the only sound between you. Finally, Tom pressed his other hand against yours, still tucked against his arm, and smiled. "I'm not."

You parted at the tube station, him jetting off to Zone 1 and you heading back to your flat to write. As he smiled once more and squeezed your shoulder in farewell, you couldn't help the giddiness that bubbled up inside you. When he was out of earshot, you let yourself finally laugh, incredulity making you disregard all the stoic faces that were watching you melt down in the station. Let them look. You had just spent the morning with Tom Hiddleston and threatened a reporter from The Daily Mail. You could literally do anything at this moment.

You felt like you could fly!

Two days later, The Daily Mail's gossip section reported a strange ginger woman leaving a café with Tom Hiddleston, though they both denied that he was, in fact, Tom Hiddleston. No photo was available to corroborate the story. Mild irritation gave way to satisfaction as you realized that no one would actually believe that small shred of gossip. You happily went back to your typing, and a week later, a link to your article was gracing the front-page banner of UNICEF's website. You weren't too proud to admit that you squealed a lot and jumped around a bit before going out to celebrate with your mates.

The next day at work, a dozen pink tulips graced your desk at work, with a sealed note that read: To the kindest woman to ever threaten another reporter, congratulations on a wonderful article! Let's do this again soon. –Patrick

You stared at the card, heat blossoming in your cheeks as you stared at the string of numbers after his name. Sweet Jesus, Tom Hiddleston had given you his number. You let yourself have a moment to internally freak out, then punched in his digits with shaky fingers. Your knee bounced, your insides quivered, but your voice gave a damn good performance as he answered and you cheerful chirped, "Patrick! Darling! Thanks so much for the flowers. I suppose now that you're cheating on my good patronage with other clients, you can afford them."

You could hear his answering grin over the phone.

It became a sort of game for you, a willful insistence that reporters cease prying into his personal life by giving them absolutely useless information (as sweetly as possible, of course). He was your dog sitter for your new shitzu, your second cousin three times removed from out of town, your feng shui expert, your accordion teacher, and your orthodontist. The latter of which received the most undignified uproar from the stupid reporter who covered the story when he unnecessarily pointed out that you didn't even wear braces.

You and Tom had rolled around on the living room floor laughing at that one.

A clip of your interview from the first premiere you attended as a couple had been replayed several times on morning talk shows and had over 10,000 views on Youtube after an interviewer had given you a backhanded compliment about your (very lovely) gown and had asked if you were excited to have been allowed into such an exclusive event. "Are you kidding?" you were filmed saying, just as sweetly and I-have-no-idea-what-you're-talking-about as you always were with these kinds of people, "I think he's the more excited one." You nodded to Tom, who was standing next to you, ready to defend you at your signal. "I'm used to all the glitz and glam, and frankly, the thinly-veiled backstabbing" – pause to smile pointedly at said reporter- "but this is a huge treat for him. He's my plumber, you see, and I figured it would be charitable to show the guy a nice night out on the town after all his hard work. Let's not ruin it by holding up the line." You glance to your left at the next couple to come up the red carpet and squeeze Tom's hand. "Shall we?" He sweeps you away without a backward glance and you leave that reporter standing there gaping after you two.

No one sees how white your knuckles are, or sees your knees shaking under your dress.

But Tom's reaction is all it takes to remind you that you are exactly where you're meant to be as he whisks you home after hours of movies, drinks, and dancing to peel you out of your dress and worship your body, inch by inch. "You are so incredible, my love," he whispers against your ear as he takes you slowly, ever so slowly. One hand winds up into your short hair and tugs right at that sweet spot that makes you moan for him. You've intentionally grown your hair out an inch or so longer so that he can do just that, and he rewards you for it every chance he can.

"I love you," you whisper against his lips, nails scraping down his back. "I love you so much."

He groans and his hips buck into yours faster as his control slips. You love this moment, the moment where all that careful politeness and self-control devolve into pure desire for you. "Fuck," he whispers against your skin, nipping at your collarbone and laving it with his tongue. Your hips tilt up to greet him at each stroke, and you feel yourself shatter around him with a hoarse cry and he comes inside you, fist clenched in your hair. It's many more minutes of harsh breaths shared between you two before he pulls out and gathers you to his chest, his fingers massaging the spot they had just been tugging.

"I love you, my crazy darling," he mumbles against your forehead. You sigh happily, feeling incredibly pleased with yourself for how tonight went, until you remember that bitch who insulted your dress. "I think," he says softly, breaking through your reverie, "that I'd like to be your gardener next time."

You giggle, pulling back to find him staring down at you, grinning madly. "Are you kidding? I can only imagine what Tumblr will come up with after tonight's plumber incident and what a good job you must have done 'cleaning my pipes.' Do you really want to fan the flames by being the gardener who tends my bush?"

There's a wicked twinkle in his eyes as his dastardly long fingers reach down to stroke your pussy, still wet and ready for him. "What bush?"

No British actor is safe after Tom proposes to you. Each time a reporter asks you about the wedding details, you either look at them in shock, then down at your engagement ring, and then back up several times until they groan and leave you alone, or you shrug and tell them, "I don't know about Tom Hiddleston, but I do know that my husband, (insert British actor here) will be delighted with whatever I choose."

Ian McKellen hugs you at the first premiere after you exited a Victoria Secret shop and dropped his name. "My dear, you are utterly wicked," he tells you, kissing both cheeks adoringly.

You, barely holding in your inner fan girl, wink and say, "That's why we're getting married, isn't it?" His lovely husband Sean shoos you away and you scamper off with a laugh.

"Let's make sure we send them a very large wedding present," Ian remarks. "I like that sassy thing. I think she's good for Tom."

Michael Fassbender, Daniel Craig, and Daniel Radcliffe all laugh it off, while Tilda Swinton is absolutely tickled pink that you dropped her name in the fun, and gives you a playful kiss on the mouth the next time she sees you in public. Tom laughs and the cameras snap away. Benedict Cumberbatch faces off against you one premiere night while his wife holds onto Tom's tie, and you are thrilled that all of your faces reflect the same silly happiness that's been missing for a few years. London has been very tolerant of your shenanigans, and you have a feeling it is because Tom is so well-loved. The press hates you, but his fans adore you, which is a surprisingly new frontier.

Reporters still won't stop asking stupid questions, though.

"How does it feel to be Mrs. Hiddleston?" someone asks you a week after your wedding as you stand next to Tom while he signs autographs. You see it's a fan, and you smile happily.

"It's amazing," you promise, and give their hand a squeeze.

"How does it feel to be Mrs. Hiddleston?" a reporter asks later that night.

"Who?" you reply.

You try to hide your pregnancy for as long as you can. Mostly because Tom is away for most of the first trimester filming in Germany and coming home only one weekend a month. You don't want to announce to the world that you're pregnant and alone. But eventually, the tabloids start commenting on how fat you're starting to look, which is really rude, even for them. Finally, when Tom comes back, you begin a new game. Randomly hiding bits and bobs under your clothing to extend your stomach just a bit.

The first reporter to ambush you with baby questions blinks in surprise as you whip out a small balloon from under your sweater. "You can have it," you tell her, and you and Tom continue on your way, leaving her gaping at the balloon in her hand.

"You're devious," Tom chuckles as you both round the corner. You burst into a fit of giggles and squeeze his arm happily. This never gets old.

After the balloon comes a whoopee cushion, a half-filled beach ball, and an inflatable watermelon. When you're too big to actually fit anything under your shirt anymore, you take to acting really confused when someone mentions your belly. "No, no," you say, "I just accidentally swallowed a watermelon seed. The doctor assured us that it'll be fine."

"A baby? No, the Science Museum asked me to incubate one of their velociraptors. Chris Pratt's new Jurassic movie is going to begin filming soon and they're afraid it won't be ready in time."

"Pregnant? That's really rude. I know it's bigger than usual, but it's just a really big pimple."

Tom just laughs, shrugging as the reporters turn to him with desperation in their eyes like he's asking, 'what do you want me to do about her?'

Little Sophia Victoria is the light of your life, and you actually find yourself scaling back on the sarcastic comments after she's born. You let your little family be seen out in public and are surprised to find that no one really bothers you. On Sophia's third or fourth outing, a young reporter with shaggy hair that droops adorably over his eyes actually ASKS for permission to take your picture as a family. You start to say something, but he puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender and says, "I swear I won't ask any questions. I'd just like a photo, if that's alright."

"Okay."

Both Tom and the reporter blink at you, but you just smile sweetly, as though you've never made trouble in your life. The reporter seems frozen for a moment, but then he scrambles back to snap a quick photo of you two with the stroller and stutters out a thank you. "You're really awesome," he tells you, smiling before bounding away.

You and Tom walk along for a few moments in silence before you raise your hand up to his and he answers your high five. "You did it," he says, awe plain in his voice.

"I fucking did it."

A/N: There! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Leave a review and let me know! Cheers!