A/N: This is what happens when I set out to write a short, sexy drabble. Seven pages later . . . Sigh.

The alternate title to this piece is: Because . . . orgasms

I've always found the idea of being chased to be highly erotic, and with those legs of his, I would imagine he'd make it an extremely short chase. But teasing him would be SO fun . . .

Smut, fluff, erotica, light D/s, sex - oral and otherwise, 18+.

"No." I liked the feel of it in my mouth, and the sound of its decisiveness. "No, no, no." Multiples of everything were better, weren't they?

The absolutely stunned look on his face was worth anything that happened from here on out. Gravy, from this point on.

"Excuse me?" The softness - not the tone, necessarily - was the dead giveaway that I had booped the tiger's nose one too many times in the past . . . well what had it been now . . . three months? Thirty seconds? Who could tell?

I raised my eyebrow as far as it could go up my forehead, like he did so many times at me. "Tell me, Tom," I asked, leaning over and letting him get a good look at the way my unfettered boobs were crammed into the tiny lace tank top I was wearing, my lips close enough to graze his ear as I spoke, decorating him, I'm sure, with smears of my Fuck Me Red lipstick. "did I stutter?"

Before he had a chance to react any way at all, I leaned back and danced away from where he was sitting on the couch, legs wide open in a blatant invitation to kneel between them that I had availed myself of frequently in the past.

But not this time.

I wasn't anywhere near far enough away from him, I realized with a start when he was already up and taking only a few of those ginormous strides of his and closing in on me fast. I had already kind of mapped out my route as I took it, through the kitchen - it had slick floors I could slide on in my bare feet which would help me eek out precious time against my depressingly athletic love - and out onto the long deck - jumping chairs and shit if I absolutely had to - then in the other door - closing it behind me and locking it in one smooth move that came dangerously close to losing him a couple of toes - as he stood there for a long moment, looking at me, his head cocked to one side, giving me "the look".

My thumbs went into my ears, fingers waggling away, my tongue came out and I crossed my eyes all at the same time and saw him sigh.

"Aw, am I boring you, Mr. Fiddlestone?"

That got a chuckle out of him. Getting him laughing was an advantage. If he was laughing hard enough, he wouldn't be able to run.

As fast.

"How about if I help you with that?" I said, reaching for the hem of my shirt and pulling it off over my head to press my high, firm bare breasts against the sliding glass door that separated us. I thought his eyes were going to roll out of his head - and, when I could see that they were about to glass over, then I took a step away, wet each thumb and forefinger in my mouth - slowly - and brought them down to pinch nipples that had been constantly erect since the day I met him.

Was that a growl I heard him make? I asked myself as I watched him clench and unclench his fists by his side for a long moment, that telltale muscle working in his jaw as he tried to bore holes through me with his heated, covetous stare, then he did what I thought he'd've done a long time ago and ran towards the other door that we'd come in.

Of course, by that time, I had already found another hiding place, and we had a big house to play in. He chased me across the hall and up the foyer stairs, through the shared bath room between what we already referred to as "the twin's rooms", then I escaped down the tiny back stairs that ended up in the kitchen. I was frankly amazed - and patting myself on my back incessantly - that I had managed to elude him and those absurdly long legs of his this long!

Just then he came flying down the back stairs after me. I was panting hard - he was just slightly out of breath. I knew I hated the man.

"You give up?" he asked, leaning casually against the doorway as if the world - and I - were his oysters - and he was going take his sweet ole' time lapping up my little pearl as soon as he could lay hands to me.

Smug bastard!

Wait . . . I was running away from him because . . . ?

In answer, the white eyelet Daisy Dukes I'd worn to lunch to tease him hit the floor. I stepped out of them, kicked them up into my hand then launched them at him, smacking him square in the face with them, and when he wiped them away - taking an obscenely and deliberately deep breath of them before he did, I noticed - he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"Fuck me, you went commando! You never go commando! Why didn't I know this - all morning shopping - and through lunch?!" he almost whimpered that last.

I nodded, a huge self-satisfied grin on my face. "I think I left a huge wet spot on the chair at Maurice's." I licked my lips deliberately, lowering my voice. "The whole time we were there, I was thinking about how you could definitely bring me off from across that crowded room, Tommy - you would know exactly the right things to say to me - and even in front of all of those people, I'd cum loud and hard, involuntarily, helplessly - because it was you and your fucking ought-to-be-illegal British accent talking to me."

I couldn't help it. Just thinking about that little scene and my hands instantly had minds of their own, and they headed south to where I was warmest, the fingers of one hand v-ing open my lips, letting some of my juices escape to practically flow down my legs, the other gathering my own dew so my middle finger glided slickly over a clit that was already long since at attention. "When your voice gets all Loki'd, and you say things like 'value added tax', 'Bob's your uncle' or . . . mmmmmm . . . 'cream tea' - I get sooooooo hawwwwwt . . ."

He was chuckling but looking downright tortured at the same time.

The always unmistakable bulge in his pants was a least twice its usual size, and I knew from personal experience that there was a lot more there than the material hinted at. Those dress pants he favored must've been getting more than a little uncomfortable about now . . .

Suddenly, the tiger was on the move again. He was at one end of the dining room table, and I was the other, lazily circling it, keeping each other - or trying to - a hundred and eighty degrees apart.

"You keep saying that to me," he taunted, bracketing his jaw with his long, thin thumb and forefinger as he squinched up his face like he was having to think very hard, still moving stealthily around the table, "but I've never seen any -"

I had forgotten how fit the bastard was, and how he loved to make impossibly tall vertical leaps - which he did just then onto the dining room table.

" - evidence of it."

I screamed - okay, I giggle-screamed because a certain amount of nervousness had set in for some reason - and even though I began to back away immediately I wasn't anywhere near fast enough for the human velociraptor that is Tom Hiddleston. Like a rabbit transfixed by a snake, my eyes locked with his and I couldn't look away as he jumped down off the table and began to advance on me slowly, stride by excruciatingly slow stride, as if he had all the time in the world to devour me and he was intent on savoring the process.

The game was - for all intents and purposes - over, but I wasn't willing to concede just yet. I let him stalk me, and, since I couldn't see where I was going, he easily guided me -half intimidating me - into the corner of the dining room nearest the hallway that lead to our bedroom.

When he leaned a hand against each wall as he positioned himself in front of me, he'd already laced our fingers together, effectively both trapping me and rendering my arms useless. He leaned down to take a nipple between those beautiful lips of his and suckle strongly, making both of us groan.

I wanted to put my fingers in his hair and use it to hold his head to me, but I couldn't.

As he kissed his way up to my mouth, he murmured against my skin, "What was that you said a few minutes ago? That two letter word I hate hearing from you in any capacity?"

"No." I wanted it to come out all brave and in his face, but I was already trembling much too badly with my need of him for that.

"Did you mean no, don't kiss you?" he asked, taking my mouth aggressively, slanting his mouth over mine, his tongue forcing its way past my lips and teeth to plunder the area it found.

"Tom, please," I panted when he ended the kiss.

"No don't kiss your nipples or play with your breasts?" He asked as he did both, using thumbs and forefingers to tug and pull at what he knew had to be very sensitive buds - they were so swollen and dark mauve they were nearly purple, and all for him. His mouth found them easily, biting gently then soothing the ache and creating new ones.

I was dancing on my tiptoes, crammed into the corner with nowhere to go and no way to move - either to encourage or discourage him - definitely the former rather than the latter.

"No, don't tie your arms behind your back to make you more vulnerable to me and keep those naughty hands out of my way where they should always be? Is that what you mean, my darling girl?" He released my hands - it wasn't as if I could bulldoze my way by him, anyway, by any stretch of the imagination - to take off his tie, his eyes on me the entire time, making me - me! the least modest of the two of us - feel as if I should cross my arms over my breasts; he was looking at me so . . . brazenly - as if he intended to have me in ways that would make a whore blush.

"Turn around," he commanded, not even waiting for me to comply, but forcing me to do so by his tight grip on my biceps. And it wasn't my wrists that he used the tie on, either - it was my elbows, knowing how that would force me to arch my chest out, as if I was perpetually presenting my breasts to him.

When that was done - and I had immediately tested the strength of his knots but damn, he must've been a Boy Scout or something - he didn't immediately turn me around, either. Instead he moved my long hair aside, away from my naked back, took another step towards me, smooshing my vulnerable breasts against the walls and kissing the now bare nape of my neck.

Full. Body. Shudder.

And I knew he could feel it, too, because it made him moan.

He surprised me by stepping a little back then and to the left, letting that big right hand trail its fingertips down the depression of my spine to take possession of my behind - and that was the exact right way to put it, too. He cupped me with both hands, squeezing and patting me, making me fidget under his palms.

"Steady," he warned, sounding as if he meant business.

I quieted myself as much as I could, which frankly, wasn't much.

"I love this bottom," he whispered. "It's absolutely perfect. There's nothing whatsoever that I'd change about it or you."

Suddenly, he was on his knees and I could feel his lips and mouth and tongue on my rear end. He kissed it and licked it and -

"Yeow! No biting!" I whined, dancing again - as much as I could - not seeing the swat coming. "Ow! Ow! Ow!"

"There's that word again."

"Sorry."

He leaned against me to whisper into my ear, "You will be before long, I can promise you that."

Then he turned me around and leaned me back a bit, bracing me against the walls as best he could. He planted both palms on my backside and lifted me off the floor, hooking my legs over his shoulders so that I was spread before him like a banquet. He caught my eye, growling, "No, Tom, don't lick and flick and tongue my cunt?" just before he pressed his entire face into my quim, licking me everywhere he could reach, from the inside out.

I was being destroyed by how this was ending up. I should have guessed he'd be fucking amazing at it - he was, after all, a tremendous actor, and his mind was at least as imaginatively dirty - dirtily imaginative? - as mine was - maybe more so.

"Oh, Tom, oh, please!"

I heard a wet chuckle against my not so little button.

"Please what? Please no? Should I stop? You did say no, didn't you?" He looked comically befuddled. "No means no, doesn't it?"

"NO!" I full on shrieked at him. "You can't stop - " I panted. "Please. You can't -"

I was beginning to think I needed to shave off that fucking eyebrow. It was entirely too annoyingly smug to be allowed to go on living and annoying me to no end. "I can't? I can't? First you're telling me no, next you're telling me what I can and can't do? I think you forget to whom you are speaking, my girl ." After a long, slow, intimate kiss during which I practically began to see stars and that left me so wound up that the next breath I felt on my clit was going to completely set me off, he looked up and said, "I don't think so."

It was Tom who had taken original offense at my word - and tone - it was Tom who had chased me all over the house like a sex maniac pervert (or was the technical term 'sex pervert maniac'?), and it was Tom who had jumped on the table and expertly cornered his prey seconds later. Tom had bound me and Tom had feasted on me, just to the very edge of that sweet point of no return.

But it wasn't Tom who finished me off.

"You seem to conveniently forget that I am a God, little girl, not some puny Midgardian man. I own every delectable inch of you. You are mine, to do with as I please. I do what I want, when I want." Loki practically snarled in that deep, dark I'm-going-to-sex-you-to-death-without-even-touching-you voice of his "And at this moment, what I intend to do, is you."

I hadn't even noticed that he'd loosed the impressive scepter that was his until I felt the broad head of it nudging insistently against my entrance. He stood, taking me with him, in one somehow elegant motion, guiding my legs into place around his hips then giving one tremendous thrust as his fingers worried my clit furiously. I immediately began growling low in my throat and rode him as violently as he did me, seconds later flying apart and almost howling with the tremendous wave of rapture that had me clenching around him, the possessive, possessed feeling of the heft and girth of him within me setting me off again and again, a tidal wave of orgasms he fucked me nearly unconscious through.

When he came, his bellow was raw with pleasure. He looked feral and primal and deliciously base. My classy, sophisticated Tom at his core.

Practically had me cumming again, I so loved that completely unmasked expression.

In the hazy, stunned aftermath we were panting desperately, though, instead of trying to get us to the bedroom, which wasn't really that far away, even, he simply lowered the both of us to the floor in silent surrender, and, in my mind, I applauded his practical - if somewhat staid - decision, flumping myself over him, intent on never moving my hard-hammered carcass again.

At least until I got hungry - hungry or never, whichever came first.

His big hand rubbed gently up and down my back and I hummed my appreciation.

"Damn. That was . . . That was . . . fucking amazing!" he breathed, gathering me close and folding his arm under his head.

"Or amazing fucking."

"That too."

"Tom?"

"Yes, cupcake?"

I had to smile at that. "Did you let me win?

He frowned. "Did I let you win? Nooooooo, because you didn't win. I trapped you in the corner, remember? That's how we got here."

I frowned, too, but even more deeply and dramatically. "I don't think that, as an American, I can ever admit to losing anything, sorry. I think it goes against my conjugal rights . . . or something legal jargon sounding like that."

He was giggling. I loved the sound of his giggle. "Droit de seignuer, perhaps?" he suggested helpfully.

"I think you have to be a man to claim that, in America, at least." I shrugged magnanimously. "Irregardless -"

He snorted at me deliberately using that pet peeve word.

"I am going to claim victory, though, of course, because, you know . . . orgasms."

Both his eyebrows went up. "A salient point you have there. I think I'll have to concur with you on that. Orgasms are always an extremely valid point, and I think that, legally speaking, as we are, they trump any other valid point."

I nodded enthusiastically. "I think we need to point this extremely important fact out to the G-8."

"Make love not war." He tried to thrust his fist into the air, but he was still so wiped it came off looking kind of . . . not good.

"Since we've covered that already, how about we make snack not war, instead?"

"Good idea," he agreed enthusiastically.

But a few long seconds went by and neither of us had moved.

Always, helpful, I mentioned as I curled up against him to wait him out until he volunteered to get up and snack us, since he was the man and bound by duty and honor to die in the attempt - if necessary - to provide us with chocolate chip cookies and big glass of milk, "I think I see a fuzzy old Cheeto under the closest chair, think you can reach it with one of your freakishly long arms so we can try to stave off starvation?"