Being a production assistant has its perks. Sure, you're no stranger to the fourteen hour day and the word 'break' is no longer part of your vocabulary, but the good far outweighs the bad. For example, meeting some of the most respected names in the business. Even if it is just serving them lunch. Most of the time you're invisible, not that you're disrespected, but everyone is so busy it's hard to take time out to chitchat with every crew member. That is, unless you're Tom Hiddleston. If you're Tom Hiddleston, you take time to talk with every crew member.
You like to serve Tom's lunch last. What can you say? You're an opportunist. You have to be in this industry. The rest of the cast and crew are so buried in their work, they barely notice your arrival. But Tom always makes time for small talk. And who doesn't want to make small talk with Tom Hiddleston? Serving him last means getting to talk for as long as he wants. It's easy to justify. After all, when's the last time you had an actual break (never, the answer is never)?
Today, there's a motorcycle parked outside of his trailer. The afternoon sun glints off the bike's chrome exhaust. A helmet hangs from the right handlebar. So he's been driving it already. You heard it roll onto set this morning, engine thundering, vibrating the air in only the way a motorcycle can. And though you hadn't seen Tom on it, you had no troubleimagining him on it. And it's a...problematic image, certainly not professional. It involves Tom's long legs straddled over the frame, his back arched forward, his large hands tightly gripping the handlebars, his blue eyes fixated intently on the road...
You shake your head as if discarding the image from your thoughts altogether. Calm the fuck down. You're a production assistant, not a fangirl (okay, that's a lie, you're both but obviously the latter takes precedence here) and you have a job to do.
You knock twice on the trailer door, steeling yourself against the motorcycle's alluring presence by keeping your eyes glued forward. "Lunch, Mr. Hiddleston."
"It's open," he calls. As you enter, he adds, "And if you don't want to hear that awful 'Mr. Hiddleston is my father' joke again, you'd better start calling me Tom."
You immediately set the styrofoam container down on a nearby table and turn to face him. "Sorry, it's habit, Mr. Hid..." Your voice cuts off. And it's not because you caught yourself before calling him Mr. Hiddleston.
It's Tom like you've never seen him before. He stands in front of a full length mirror scrutinizing his appearance. He's dressed like something out of every sexual fantasy you've ever had. First there's the jeans. Dark washed, tight. Capital "T" tight. So tight he might as well be naked for as much information as you're gleaning about his...ahem...assets. It only gets worse (better? Who the fuck knows) from there. His torso is layered for riding—a black sweater peeking out from beneath a worn-in gray hoodie topped with a perfectly distressed brown leather jacket. And maybe, maybe you could have handled it. Maybe you could have gotten out of here and into the bathroom before the incessant throbbing started between your legs. But there's absolutely no hope when you see the goddam aviator sunglasses perched delicately on the bridge of his nose. They accentuate his high cheekbones and add an enthralling edge to his wholesome good looks.
You're mouth gapes open. A half-moan bubbles in your throat and comes out as a small squeak. Tom turns around. A corner of his lips lift up. The aviators amplify the sexiness of the smirk to levels you can't begin to fathom. He takes a step towards you and lifts his arms away from his sides, fingers splayed, putting his body on display. The leather sighs with effort as it pulls taut against his muscular shoulders. "I could use a second opinion. What do you think?" he asks.
Your mouth open and closes. If he was attractive before (which he was), now he'sintoxicating. "I...uhm...it's...." You try to think of a more professional way to say you're more fuckable than you've ever been which is pretty damn fuckable.
