Random One Shots

Random one shots with actors, musicians/bands and characters.

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59. Martin Freeman 11

~When you'd rolled into work this morning, you knew Martin had plans for dinner tonight and would be dropping by to pick you up. So you'd been a good girl and hung back at the office, all frocked up and ready to go. You'd gone modern, keeping your hair simple in a sleek chocolate bob, wearing your favourite piece, a neon pink and white figure-skater style dress, legs bare, elevated generously by your black stiletto ankle boots. The pleated hem skirted your thighs perfectly, just flirty enough to hint at cheek.
You'd been standing at your desk when he walks in. A glance alone was enough. You flick through the case note pages, unable to read a word, and close the file shut. "You're dressed pretty sharply for just a quiet dinner out."
With that observation, you realise Martin plans to fuck you here. You see it in his face while he sizes you up, patiently studying the tight fabric that hugs your torso, a wonderful glimmer in those earnest cobalt eyes, shifting with your hips, curling snugly around your arse as you proceed to sit down. The calm, measured manner with which he proceeds to unbutton his overcoat and shrug it off, carefully placing it on the coat rack at the centre of your pod.
"That's funny--I should say the same about you."
He stands over you, clamping down on the armrests. Good God, he's shades of a deep, dark fantasy that you'd thought you'd buried and put to rest, that old monochrome Esquire Magazine photo on your bedroom door come to life in full-blown technicolour, slick-haired and sleekly-suited in rich navy blue, resplendent in fine cotton and silk. Right down to the last detail, a striped handkerchief folded neatly in his left breast pocket, simply gorgeous.
"Jesus. Don Draper, eat your heart out."
He takes your chin, tilting your mouth to his, smile all-too-knowing, baring teeth like the glint of a knife. "You better fucking believe it."
You rise with his kiss, steady, slow, delighting in the dance of textures at your fingertips, crisp cotton smoothed over his chest, his woollen lapels velvety, luxurious. A taste of the Martin you know well, dwelling on the slide of lips, the fresh, zesty mint airing on his breath, always leaving you wanting more. By the time you realise why you're fisting his tie, it's too late, these long lost shadows of yourself lured right out into the open, hankering for him to really show his teeth. When he does, scraping hungrily at your bottom lip, you moan, clutching at his collar, pulling him into you. Except it's you. You're on the edge of something you can't fathom, written like triumph all over his face. You're the one that's falling, tottering on your heels, being backed against your desk, the chair wheeled aside, spinning round and round.
"Thanks for this, by the way," he murmurs with a smug little grin, dealing out your security pass from his trouser pocket the way a magician conjures up his trump card, and he slides it beside your right hand, straight up the centre of your open diary. You whimper at the ease of his motion, questioning his features, yet they're gentle as usual, his jaw supple and relaxed. Comfortable in the knowledge that he owns everything here, this privileged workspace, your body, snatched up and swallowed by his body. A grand sweep of his arms either side of you and whole racks of files are demolished, cleared away like so much rubbish.
"You're quite enjoying this, aren't you?" You're scrambling for purchase, scattering whatever files are left, some falling onto the floor. "Trashing my office while getting your rocks off?"
"You tell me. It's meant to be your fantasy."
You blink. Something about that remark doesn't quite compute. "My fantasy?"
"Yeah. I did my research. Found some of your lovely Freesmut on Tumblr."
Fuck. He actually knew the lingo. Fuck. Of course he would. You couldn't exactly hide your work--it was all out there for public consumption if he sought to look hard enough to find it. Still, it felt too fast, too raw, seeing these pages ripped straight out of your personal diary of lust letters dedicated to him. Every single sordid detail, his text, his outfit, the stolen security pass.
Wear something nice.
You open your mouth. Well, holy shit. He'd planned this entirely by your design, the canny bastard.
"In fact, you wouldn't guess what I was reading the other night, when you'd found me asleep with the laptop?"
He places his index finger between your brows, tracing the bridge of your nose to its tip, the swell of your lower lip. His nail scores the ridge of your chin, down the curve of your throat, and you swallow, fabric pressed to the dip of your collarbone, the hollow of your chest. You've never felt more naked in your life.
"I could."
On that particular night you'd lumbered in from yet another marathon stint at work, kicking off your ballet flats upon entering your bedroom. Towards the end of the bed his Macbook was propped up precariously on your pillow--you shifted it across to the vanity, out of harm's way. In the glow of lamp light he looked so beautiful just lying there, downy hair glistening, a gold aura cast over his forearms and calves, bathing his chest, finely trailing down to his pubis. He was snoring, belly softly rising and falling, limbs tangled up in your normally pristine white sheets. They were an absolute mess, damp and stinking thickly of sweat and cum. His cock was twitching, still partly erect, and the smile on his face. That fucking brilliant smile.
Blood rushes to your head, fills your ears, and even with your ruddy complexion you look utterly flushed. "I guess...I suppose I should be flattered."
"You bloody well should be," he laughs. His warmth washes over your bare arms in a ripple of goosebumps, ending in a sure squeeze of your hands, pale skin over tan. So Martin Freeman has been having a grand old wank to your own porn written about him. It's fucked up on so many levels you're waiting for pigs to fly by your window, and yet there's nothing outside but the clear, starry night. His fucking brilliant smile right in front of you, more than delighted to be living out this fantasy of yours. There's no point in kidding yourself--you want this.
You've always wanted this.
That devilish tongue is back at work, leading you again into his kiss, breaking the seam of your lips, your dress split open tooth by tooth, unzipped down to the small of your back. With the curve of your arse in his palms, he hums, relishing his grip on you, the sound lowly, almost primal, rippling through your spine. Around that pounding heart of his, you're itching to soak in the heat of his skin, muscles expanding with his patchy intakes of breath. Grasp at those familiar phrases written into memory, that tremble at your fingertips, spanning solid shoulders, the softness of his stomach. So many elements that defy meagre adjectives and nouns, this monster of a man who's daring you, tempting you to grab hold of him, unbuckling the notch of his belt.
He catches your wrist with a slap. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he chides, shaking his head, "you know very well that's not what happens next."
You're snatched by your waist, whirled around to face the desk, the weight of him plied against you, bending you over, palms slammed down flat. While it might be your script, it's his show, tipped by that precious nose of his trailing the back of your neck, a kiss planted between your shoulder blades, fanned by his hands. He positively burns, working a performance that's seamless, threading kisses across your neck, those hands seeping through the gap in your dress, shaped by your sides, fabric bulging at your front as though you've given birth to his touch, traipsing from the pit of your belly stud up the ridges of your ribs. No wonder he's unwilling to improvise here when it's natural, so effortless for him to bare your sweet spot, the pulse point at the valley of your jaw, sucking you till you're throbbing. He leans in, the edges of his voice electric, sparking at your ear.
"We've barely fucking started, and you're soaked already." He's rounded your throat, mouthing the delicate skin there, playful, a gentle raking of his teeth. He inhales. "I can smell it."
He's not wrong. That line...Christ, you're completely unravelling, thoughts crackled static in your head, and all you can do is cling onto him, such fine, delicate skin nearing his nape, urging him under your bra, your breasts filling one palm, then the other, kneading you in slow, undulating circles. His lips form sweeping upstrokes along your jawline, much like his thumb tracing your areola, flicking the nipple, letting it pebble, ache.
At some point you start to babble, though the sounds fail to resemble words, an indecipherable mantra willing the pleasure that blooms at your pubis. Soon your breaths are hitching with his, thighs spread open, yielding to the brush of a hand inching beneath lacy black fabric. Past your soft bush, he crooks his fingers within your folds, circling your clit, the tiny nub swelling, brimming with orgasm, and you positively mewl, rutting against his fingers.
"Come on, beg for me," he whispers, nipping at your ear lobe before taking it between his teeth. He tugs till he hears you gasp. "You know you want to."
"Please, Martin..." You're panting, struggling to cobble words together, but it quietly stuns you how willingly you submit to what you have to say, the desperation quavering in your voice--pride be damned. "Just fuck me already...please."
"And miss out on all this fun torturing you? Watching you squirm with anticipation, every little move I make magnified a hundredfold by that wicked imagination of yours?" He swiftly moulds your buttock to peel off your panties, sticky, vainly clinging to your skin, smearing the insides of your thighs. "You've read me far too well, darling. You have no idea."
Although you're quick to win over his mouth, you're losing whatever grip you have on him, the slither of leather twisting, his tongue, fluid, hot around yours. You shut your eyes to the sound of metal clinking with the eager click of teeth, wet fingers that follow your cleft, down to your asshole, moans growing louder as he spirals around your rim, once, twice, and he can't stop. You buck into him, crying out to be stripped apart, to be opened up and fucked.
He does neither of those things. "Bend over," he orders.
As you step out of the panties dangling at your ankles, display your bare ass for him, dress hem flaring, you remember dinner, the pure awe that absorbs his face with the buzz of a zip, fabric rustling, dropping to the carpet. His palm clutches at your centre as he slides between your butt cheeks, lathering in your wetness underneath. You try desperately not to think of that thick shaft thrusting deep inside you, his cock growing slick, achingly hard, its bulbous tip nudging at your clit, driving you crazy. So close now. So close.
Over your shoulder, you catch him tugging his collar and tie loose, a vivid flash of paisley sunset, orange, gold, burnt sienna. Underneath there's creamy white flesh, a peek of his collarbone, and it's sin to contemplate what more is hidden away under that soft blue fabric for you to savour, to taste. Though it won't be here, not tonight, fingers solid, wrapping around your neck, reminding you of where you should be. He looks you over, eyes darkly like midnight, glowing with desire, and you can hear the slightest sound of friction, juices on flesh, it's delicious.
"Slow...or fast?" It's a total mystery how he's able to speak coherently when he's wanking himself the way he is, but you can spot the cracks in his tone. He's pretty close too.
You drag your tongue salaciously across your lip, just as he would, the sincerest form of flattery. "Slow...then fast."
Martin chuckles. This is too weird, having what feels like a well-worn conversation you've imagined in your head countless times before. Especially when he already knows your answer, knows just how to angle you in the way he wants, pushed forward, closing in on the window. The moon is full, incandescent white--exactly the way you'd pictured it.
This is your fantasy, and it cannot remotely compare to the unique means of his touch, meandering over the ridges of your vertebrae, a steady palm at the small of your back, his shaft finally easing itself inside your ass. It's a peculiarly beautiful sensation and you're keening, being stretched open from the outside in.
"God, you feel so fucking good...fuck," he groans, caressing your flanks, welcoming the irresistible burn of your tightness, resisting him. That pain quickly dissolves into his rhythm, cocooning himself around you through these layers of fabric, shirt buttons on his chest that scratch at your skin almost tauntingly. You rattle the computer clawing at the desk's flawless surface, wanting him, all of him inside you, clutching at his face, soft and round, grunts nested in your hair. With each thrust he lengthens, his body coiling in on you, spreading you out, sharpening your senses to the tip of your nipple, tingling, rolled hard between his knuckles, flesh threatening to burst in his clutches as he scours the inner reaches of your thighs.
"Fuck me, Martin...harder...harder..." Your clit pushes for his fingertips, stroking him, lapping him up. He growls, surprised when you arch right back into him, taking him inside you completely, a heady smack of flesh that snaps you both. He grinds back at your walls, demanding his friction, faster and faster, hitting you just there, yes, yes, sharp, jagged edges blurring into your folds, clenching tight around his fingers. Everything goes white, and you're screaming with him, an orgasm that collapses headlong into his, riding you out until you're both spent, sprawled over your desk, a total mess.
He flops flat on his back beside you, suit jacket crumpled and creased, shirt buttons straining at his chest, heaving, face and neck bearing a sweaty sheen. If you had the energy to get up, you'd lick him clean without thinking about it.
"Fuck."
You stare at each other and crack up with laughter. To think he'd chosen to book a table at a Michelin starred restaurant tonight. All those uppity snobs and the two of you wandering in, scruffy, stinking of sex. Their judging, envious eyes. You practically salivate at the prospect.
"We should do something after dinner." It's downright criminal, how brazen he is sucking away at his own glistening fingers smothered with your cum. As if you were nothing more than a snack.
"What did you have in mind?" You reach over to his free hand, your fingers neatly entwining in his, small, secure.
"I was thinking of bed and a DVD, actually." The minute grin tugging at the corners of his mouth tells you otherwise, drawing your hand into his jacket pocket. "Or we could eat like pigs, get drunk on some very expensive wine, and see where that takes us. I brought these along. They might come in handy."
Curved metal and tiny chain links. Oh...My...God. He'd found them. Thought about how he was going to use them, on you. You can't comprehend where to even start, the possibilities...the positions.
Thankfully, his lips are pliable, acquiescent when you kiss him, because you've got nothing, no witty comeback, no more words to say. It's his turn to write the story now. This supposedly plain, ordinary man, as far away from fucking beige as you could possibly get.
 

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