Random One Shots

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

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52. Martin Freeman 5

~You're lying on a bed, naked but for your underwear. Martin is straddling you, fingers entwined in yours above your head. He's wearing nothing more than that infamous red military jacket, tassels and jingling chains of metal dangling cold over your ribcage as his body hovers above yours. You're clenching your jaw. Determined not to crack up.
He's smirking. And has been all along. Endlessly amused by the fact that you crave this. Being dominated by him. Martin lets one of your hands slip out from his grip. Feel for his face, grasping the majesty of his beard, chestnut growth rich, scruffy through your fingers.
"Dost grant me, hedgehog?"
He laughs as your thumb borders the corner of his mouth. That you'd have the temerity to question him. Even though you're the one ripe to be picked apart, little by little. By his tongue, emerging forth to sense you out, moistly lathing the pad of skin. Blood rushes to your head. Spreads its blush across your body, to his delight. He captures your thumb, taking it into his mouth, right down to the base. Swallowed into heat. Clearly looking to drive you mad with his fixated sucking on the stiff swell of knuckle, back up to your nail tip. And he damn well knows exactly what you're contemplating, all those other places you'd want that dastardly mouth to be. The sight of his lips forming a pert, shiny little 'o' as your thumb slips out. You're panting, drawn to him as he is to you. Almost touching. Down between your legs too, the head of his cock stroking you.
"Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made for kissing, lady, not for such contempt."
Martin practically breathes that infamous line. Lowly. Smouldering. As it should be. He fingers your cheek. Matter-of-factly tucks away a stray tuft of your fringe behind your ear. So infuriatingly, sexily...polite. Inviting your hint at contact, where you prove his point, burying yourself in that wild bed of hair, opening him up by his jaw. He yields a whine, growing limber, pliable at your fingertips. Because this is how he wants you. Forever craving to lick out the insides of his mouth, combing a fine mess through that slicked coiffure at the crown of his head. Ruthless in stripping him of his jacket, which he shrugs off, flung away with a clunky thud onto the floor nearby.
You can never quite get over how well stage work hardens him, crafting lean, strong shoulders, this firm stretch of chest, his stomach toned, solid. That hot little body underneath all the pomp and armoury. Eager for the slide of your body beneath his, hands swarming up along your flanks. He cups at a breast, and is taken by the mound he'd created, delicately mouthing at the sensitive flesh there. You're writhing, head thrown back onto the pillows as he continues around your clavicle, left clinging vainly at the bedsheets to your side.
The weight of him shifts over your hips, sprawling your legs apart to rake the shaft of his cock, long and smooth, over your pubis. Smears you with pre-cum that soaks into your underwear. One quick thrust, and he'd be inside you. Slick. Deep. It'd be so easy. His tongue runs thoughtfully over his upper lip. Reveals you a sly smile. Too easy for his liking. Not that you particularly care what Martin chooses to do when he is this delicious, stealing a kiss from you, slow, edging at your mouth until you're pouring out, fanning across his shoulder blades, trailing down his vertebrae.
From there he starts to move down your body, beard tickling over the hollow of your breast bone, and you're squirming, giggling so loudly that he needs to muffle you with his palm to shut you up. When that doesn't work, he divines the small plump of your lips at his fingertips. Heeds the quiver of your exhalations as his gaze fixes on you, lapping at your nipples till they stand, erect and proud, on your chest. Those eyes are black, rich with desire. Reducing your giggles to moans. You buck your hips into him, keening for that moist trail of kisses and sucks and swipes over your belly, down to your navel. Black lacy panties confront him. He rounds your calves, hitching up your knees. Purely to taunt you, lather his growth along the insides of your thighs, a rough, loving caress.
He's got you. Open wide, helpless. And you've got him. Hard, by the scalp.
Clumps of his hair slip and slide, tight in your grasp. Guiding him that little bit closer. Near enough to take you whole. He's grinning, mouth opening ever-so-slowly and it makes you ooze with wetness. Just as he's poised to make contact, he pauses. Bats his lashes for dramatic effect. It very nearly kills you, and you tug at him, growling at the ceiling. Begging him without words. That's all he needs to hear.
Martin latches onto your pubic bone, sucking at you through the fabric. Your panties don't take long to grow damp, between his saliva and your cum. His thumb pries at the centre of your mouth. Bearing your teeth. You tilt your head, purse your lips around the digit. He thrusts into your mouth, and you take him, right down to the base, and up again. Just as he did to you. He groans, the vibration buzzing at your centre, inside you. Needing more, so much more.
Those panties disappear in a mad scramble, dragged wetly along the insides of your thighs for you to kick away. Martin snatches your hips, digging for your ass cheeks, to cradle you into his mouth, smother you in his scruff. It's coarse and prickly and the friction at your tender entrance alone is unbearable. Your body shudders, struggles against him. But he doesn't give a fuck. His grip wrapped, vice-like, around the base of your thighs. Forearms levering you so your knees veer at right angles under the weight of him, his lips splitting you wider still. You're shoving him down as he licks out your opening, humming appreciatively. The taste of you feeds him, seething deep around your walls, slick with cum.
You let him rise briefly to take a breath, glancing you over. Around his mouth his beard gleams with your juices, which he casually preens at. Looking savage. Ready to take you. You can't stop staring. Especially as he ventures back down to your pussy, nice and slow. His lower lip gropes for the upper reaches of your folds, tongue curling over the fleshy ridge that conceals your spot. Above your head, you clutch at the bed post, hankering for that tension to seize you. That instant Martin touches upon your bud, a wondrous glint in his eye.
You swell with the gentle tip of his tongue, flickering, settling into rhythm. He finds himself wrestling to contain you, surprised at the sheer force of your entire body arching, jerking around him. Abuzz with orgasm, threatening to seep to the surface. Pressure he can feel mounting. He eases to a stop. Those nails of his are now firmly buried in your ass, aching, leaving their mark.
Then there's the simple agony of his nose rubbing at you, inhaling the smell of your sex. Everything is throbbing, and you know for sure that this won't be a quick, frenzied fuck. He's aiming to tease. Press at your spot, just to hear out your cries. Once. Twice. And again. It's torture, how he edges you like this. Inch by inch towards the brink. Close. So damn close.
You're hoarse, shuddering with him. He can sense it. Take his time to savour the moment. Before he really devours you, riding the spike of your orgasm, clenching around him as he sucks keenly at your clit. Making you scream. You're blinking out the flash, a burst that spills out all over him, grinding into his face.
Martin finally lets you go with a lingering kiss at your pubis. He shuffles back over next to you, the bed squeaking faintly as he drops onto his back. There it still is. His erection very much alive and well. You're keen to help relieve him, reaching across, but he stops you. His palm envelopes yours. Holding you and your touch as he rolls onto his side with you, curling into him, braced at your waist. He pecks you gently upon the crown of your head. Beaming. You can feel him glow.
"I am not in the vein," he murmurs.
You chuckle, drifting off to sleep. That's cool. He'll get his thank you blow job in the morning--no further Shakespeare required.
 

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