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Shakespeare in the Park (an open Reader/Tom tale/rp)

(‘Reader’, in this tale, obviously carries my traits: amazingly long hair, very short (5’2”). Feel free to reply/reblog-add as Tom.)

Shakespeare in the Park — you’ve never missed it, and this year is no exception. The offering is Measure for Measure, which you’ve only read, long time ago at college. You stretch yourself as tall as possible (which isn’t very), sweeping your gaze around the crowd of folk in folding chairs and on blankets and towels, hoping to spot someone you know. The whipping end of your knee-length braid smacks the person behind you across the chest. Snagging the end of it, you turn, opening your mouth to apologise.

The word dries up in your throat, though. The eyes you meet are a warm blue, surrounded by the crinkles of a familiar smile. That smile looks out at you every day from your computer screen.

Tom Hiddleston.

“Did you find them?” he asks, in that dark-honey voice of his. Frozen time unlocks from around your brain, and you shake your head, coiling the recalcitrant braid around your arm. His grin seems to widen as he says, “Well, then, come sit with me! You shouldn’t have to sit alone.”

He puts his hand in the small of your back and steers you to an open space near the front, helping you spread your blanket out. As you both sprawl out comfortably, he says, “I’m Tom.”

“I’m Panya.”

He looks at you, saying, “Your hair is amazing, and that’s a really pretty name.”

You find yourself explaining your name to him as the play starts, and a chance remark where you wish the audience was more like Shakespeare’s time elicits the information that he’s an actor. You realise he thinks you don’t know who he is, and have to hide a smile.

The discussion that begins there ranges to Shakespeare himself, then to language and philosophy. You both manage to pay some attention to the play, and you catch yourself hitting your head on his shoulder when the characters are being idiots. He’s everything you always imagined he’d be, witty and intelligent and funny, so very easy to talk with.

You both cheer and applaud with the rest at the end of the play, and as everyone around you begins to pack up, he asks, “Do we have to leave?”

“Well, no, but we ought to leave this area so they can clean up,” you respond.

“Walk with me?” he asks then, and you flash him a grin in response.

In the warm darkness of the park, at the heart of the city, you wander the paths with Tom, talking of everything and nothing. It’s while you are talking about video games that your phone chimes in with a very timely, “Kamikaze!” He looks startled, and you can’t help but laugh as you check the message. Twitter, of course, but it’s the time that catches your eye.

“Wow, it’s really late,” you say, not really thinking how it will sound.

“Do you have to go?” Tom looks so woebegone, you squelch another laugh.

“No,” you reassure him, “but I’d like to find a comfy chair.”

“Not the comfy chair!” he exclaims, giving you that grin that makes you want to puddle at his feet.

“Why don’t you come over to my place for a while,” you say, daringly.

He shrugs. “Okay.” Tom’s eyes pop a bit when he sees your tiny car, and you both laugh when he folds himself down to fit into it. The whole drive the two of you are still talking animatedly.

At your place, you offer him a drink — he takes some of the Dickel you keep on hand for your dad. It’s grape juice for you; you want to remember every moment of this night. You curl up on the loveseat next to him, and skilfully he draws you out, asking about your hair, your job, your past, as your cats come out to investigate.

As the hour grows later, you turn the tables, inquiring into his past. The pauses in conversation draw out longer, your voices drop quieter. You watch him, drinking him in. The line of his jaw, smooth-shaven; the way he gestures with long hands. The lift and quirk of eyebrows, of mouth. The rise and fall of eyelashes. The purity of his voice.

He finishes saying something, and looks into your eyes. The whole world is still. You lean forward, slowly, in case he wants to escape. But he leans forward, too, not looking away, and your mouths meet.

It’s almost chaste, this kiss. Just a press of lips, careful and curious. You pull away, dragging in a long breath. Tom leans that little bit more, and captures your mouth with his again. If your kiss was, “please, will you?” his is “yes, absolutely.” He taps at your lips with his tongue, and you open to him.

Pressing forward, you lose your balance entirely, crashing into Tom’s chest. A blaze of heat covers your face as you try to right yourself, not knowing where to put your hands. He grabs one wrist, loops the other arm about your waist, and effortlessly hauls you into his lap. It only takes him a few seconds to arrange the two of you to his satisfaction.

His hand in your hair draws your head back down to his, and this kiss has nothing innocent about it. This is definitively the kiss of a man who is taking what is offered, and you plunge into it wholeheartedly.