Random One Shots

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

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50. Martin Freeman 3

~Applause is a boisterous, roaring sea of sound that swirls throughout the auditorium, freely in my ears, as a rather rakish blonde woman in a chartreuse gown is herded off stage wielding a sterling gold statuette. From the seat beside me, his hand finds its way onto my lap, entwining his fingers in mine, squeezing it tightly, and everything centres there, our whole world, its sharp edges softened by alcohol I drank a little too excitedly in the limo on the way here. So far we’d planned it all out to perfection, danced our innocent little dance on a fine tether, a hand to the small of my back, a seemingly casual arm around his shoulder, a fleeting little brush of fingertips at each other’s sides, all in the name of polite cordiality. Impulsive as I was, I thought I’d be the one who’d yield and make the first move, but once he holds me in his sights, a rich velvety gleam in those beautifully earnest blue eyes, I realise he’d always had his own plans, tucked away somewhere behind that pristinely amiable smile.
He leans over, a clean shaven jaw hovering, impressing a warm tingle upon my skin there, and my breath hitches, wondering if he would dare go further, in front of all these people. His voice is unerringly calm, slicing, deep and thick, through the white noise.
“You look delectable tonight.”
He eases his grip on my hand and leaves for the aisle. My fingers find their way to the spot where his jaw was, still tingling, watching him until he disappears out of view at the rear of the theatre. I needed to breathe, remember that nothing was out of the ordinary. Nothing had actually happened.
“Are you alright? You look a little flushed.”
Next to me, his compatriot Ben gently rubbed my upper arm, concern etched gravely on his face.
“Yeah, I think I just need to go to the bathroom. Freshen myself up a bit.”
Restroom runs were ideally to be taken during commercial breaks in the telecast, so when the time came, I gathered the sides of my dress, circumspectly shuffling my way across our row and striding off in pursuit. Outside the women’s, a small red scarf lay rumpled on the floor. I picked it up and inhaled the fabric deeply, the wafting folds of his essence wrapping me up inside that one singular moment, teetering on the precipice, ready to fall. I reach out for the door, and push.
The room is brilliant, aglow in coral red marble and shiny silver chrome. It looks dull compared to the glee apparent in his face, propped upon the wall of hand dryers to my right, arms folded.
“You sure took your time,” he announces to the array of empty cubicles.
I raise a brow to him. “I’m not that easy.”
He seemed to take that as a challenge, sweeping me up by the waist into the nearest cubicle, backed into the door with a clunk. Cool metal crystallises chills down my spine through the silky white fabric, and I gasp at the electrifying clash of coldness and heat, his body smothering mine, our chests pressed so closely that I can feel the strains of our heartbeats merging into a pulse of wild thumping rhythms.
“Well, that’s just fucking rude.”
He bears an impish grin, eyes like midnight, raking steadily over the length of my body. “You were expecting tea and scones?”
“Maybe,” I reply, relaxing the black knitted tie that only hours ago I had sought to neaten, buttons popped apart one by one to slip inside his collar. I encounter the hollow of his clavicle, thumbing circles there. “I wouldn’t mind that actually.”
Twitching at my incursion across his pectoral, just grazing a nipple, he chuckles, cradling my face into the soft recesses of his palm, lowering his lips to mirror the upturned corners of my smile, melting me down, our kiss a sloppy, awkward mess of clicking teeth at first. The tangy fruity flavour of champagne is absolutely delicious, the taste of him something I’m conscious to indulge in, not get too lost too quickly, which he seems to appreciate, cupping my neck, tongue tentatively prodding at mine, curious, almost chaste. He hums with satisfaction at my grasp rising to his throat, remarking upon the pale, delicate expanse of skin, inclining his head slightly, encouraging me to explore further. My fingers splay over the expanded valley of his jaw to curl around the base of his head as though it were fragile porcelain, scissoring up through its soft sandy blonde thicket at the nape to pull him deeper into my mouth.
Above the pleated tail in his suit, the small of his back also tempts my hand, moulding to fit its gentle dip, but through cotton it’s not enough, it’s not him, I whine. Heeding my exasperation, he casually shrugs off his rather expensive suit jacket to fall into a black crumpled heap on the floor, allowing easier access to his shirttails, tugged roughly out of his pants. He groans at the completeness of contact, the heat of my skin sliding over his, and it’s not long before he craves more, skimming over the plush velvet black belt cinching my waist, the gentle plane of my sternum.
Underneath the tailored bodice my flesh crackles, longing to have him feel me, taste me, nipping sharply at my bottom lip, a quiver thrumming keenly in the pit of my stomach. He catches the cleave of my breasts, strumming the tiny ridges of fabric curtained over the steep curve of my bust with his thumb, and sneaks inside the cup of my gown, taking a breast into his palm. The pain he kneads arches me into him, scraping the tip of my heel along the back of his calf, leg folded around his hip to grind into him in one tantalising motion that had him bucking roughly into me with a growl, cock straining through his black trousers, fingers clawing at the shell of the bodice.
He withdraws, blinking and panting, licking his upper lip thoughtfully. Touché. A slight speckle of perspiration glints across his forehead, which he wipes off with his shirt cuff, revealing damp patches under his armpits. There’s a series of red crescents indented upon the mound of my right breast.
“Are you sure?” he asks, pausing to unhook his cufflinks, pushing up his sleeves.
I glance up absent-mindedly. “About what?”
“Places in LA that do late-night tea and scones.”
Smiles devolve into giggles, and it’s in that instant, where I’m drowning in the surreal ridiculousness of it all, that he nuzzles into the hollow of my neck, swiftly finding my pulse point. I marvel with a delighted purr at the patience with which he dabs at the spot with a moist swipe of his tongue, a purr which descends into a whimper once he begins to suck eagerly, enough to bruise.
It’s a bruise that will be impossible to hide when we’re done.
My heart surges, face flushing scarlet as his kiss slides over my chin to broach my mouth again, tongue darting and dodging mine to lick the ridges of my molars, playfully skimming my upper palate. To my side, I glimpse the round vanity mirror overlooking the wash basin, tracing the rippled column of vertebrae shadowed in the translucent confines of his shirt, absorbed in the hidden perfection of that compact form, the lush curvature of his bottom, the flow of muscle in his arms, contracting, bulging and stretching to rifle through the floaty billows of my dress skirt.
Although there’s no one here in this bubble of reflections, mirrors and metallic surfaces surrounding us, looking in, it constantly feels like we’re a spectacle, waiting for someone to walk through that door to catch us out.
What scares me is that part of me hopes someone does.
Startled by the efficiency with which he unveils my legs, the contours of my thighs shaping his touch, I hiss, skin reflexively prickling at the prospect of what’s to come. Nails pincer the tender inner flesh narrowing at my centre, plying me open the way he wants, and it sends the most divine shiver through me, stumbling upon his waistband, working to undo his belt buckle, fly unzipped swiftly, pants dropping like dead weight around his ankles. With the white tides of fabric swirling between us, breaking at the crook of his elbows, he practically snarls when it’s ultimately revealed that I’m not wearing any underwear.
“God, you look gorgeous,” I breathe, barely above a murmur.
“At least you have adjectives. I don’t even have bloody nouns.”
Oddly enough, his humour had a funny habit of undercutting intimate moments, and I couldn’t stop myself lapsing into a beaming smile, trailing up his flanks to embrace the breadth of his shoulders. It wasn’t only me who was a little afraid of what we were becoming. “I do.”
Behind me, his mirrored likeness stares right back at him, daring him. Idiot. Of course she knows! And you’ve always known. You know exactly what this is.
He frets over my cheek, the broad curve of my jaw, even my forehead, a short span of smooth skin, middling at the slightly raised spot marked by a mole above the right ridge of my brow to continue down the bridge of my nose, tucking a small tuft of stray hair behind my ear. Immersed in the simplicity of these sensations, this fine tether pulls us back in and under, drifting into a languid kiss. That is, until the hand at my hip slides to cup my buttock, shifting under me, the head of his cock brushing my pubis to nestle at the seat of my folds. He rocks into me, grinning at the growing slickness smoothed up and down his shaft, my moans each time he presses my clit.
I’m left rasping, throbbing in agony at being so close, so tantalisingly close to the edge, his lips ghosting over the shell of my ear. Raucous laughter rumbles through the walls as he enters me slowly, clenching tight around him, gradually twisted by a jagged friction that grinds me into rhythm with him, orgasm building, seeping at my edges as he deepens his thrusts. I scream when he starts to hit my spot, again and again, his whisper vibrating with desire, words that would easily offend if they weren't so typically vulgar, typically him.
“Your cunt is mine."
I turn into his jaw, dragging my teeth lazily over his deceptively tender skin. "Tell that to the crowd when you're up on that podium."
Our eyes meet, pupils blown, glittering, and I feel as though I've smashed a wall through to the big, wide, impossible world. Only he doesn't care. And neither do I. Driven hard, we both climax, my orgasm spilling like a torrent into his, spending himself inside me, our cries a loud, obscene assault to the silence settling in the hall outside.
Heaving, we crumple into each other. I bury my head into the crook of his shoulder, mouthing his shirt collar as he feathers the back of my neck.
“I was looking for you two.”
Oh fuck. That voice swings me around with a start, vainly attempting to form an explanation I don’t even know how to begin, exhaled air leaving the aperture frozen on my lips. At the restroom entrance, a familiar, slickly-coiffed head is poking through the restroom door.
“I still haven’t found you yet.” Ben smiles serenely, and disappears with a jaunty wink.
Puzzled, I turn back to find that he, too, is smiling blissfully, fingering the silver chain around my neck, taking his time to carefully outline the letters of my name against my clavicle, and it suddenly dawns on me what’s really happening here.
His plans weren’t quite his own.
“So…would you mind if I invited Ben along next time round?”
 

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