Random One Shots

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


63. Richard Armitage 2

~You come home from a weekend visit with your parents to Richard lying on the sofa, looking cross and miserable, covered in a too-small blanket that only reaches to his calves. He gives you the most pitiful look when you walk towards him, and you struggle to suppress a fond smile.
"When did this happen?" you ask, sitting on the arm of the sofa. He moves his sock-clad feet to make room for you on the end cushion.
"Not long after you'd left," he replies. His baritone voice has dropped in pitch and sounds extra gravelly.
"Richard," you scold. "You should've told me."
"I didn't want you to worry or feel like you have to come home." He looks so scrunched on the sofa that you allow him to stretch his legs out in your lap. "I'm a grown man, love, not a child."
This time, you can't keep the smile off your face. "Could've fooled me from how petulant you looked when I got home."
"Oh, hush," Richard huffs, and he almost pouts. "You know I have that audition in two days. I have to not sound like this by then." He sniffles.
"Right," you say, standing. "I'll make you the soup my mum made me when I got sick."
"Can't you just stay here with me?" And he looks so pale and feverish that you almost agree.
"I'll be back," you assure him, bending down to kiss his pallid forehead. It's warmer against your lips than usual. "Why didn't you get the bigger blanket?"
"I don't know where it is."
You sigh and open the chest against the far wall, rummaging through it. "I swear, you men become as helpless as babies when you're ill."
You drape the larger blanket over him, making sure to cover his feet, and he fairly snuggles into it. "But that's why I've got you."
"Charmer," you mutter and brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."
The soup takes about an hour to cook, but after you add all the ingredients to the pot, you rejoin Richard in the living room. Sitting on the sofa again, with his head in your lap, you tell him about your weekend with your parents and how they'd reacted to the news that you and Richard had moved in together. Your mother, as she was wont to do, barely batted an eyelash, saying that after a year of dating, it was the next logical step. Your father, on the other hand, was less keen about it, but he liked Richard, so his objections were short-lived. Plus, your mother had given him a pointed look.
"You'd think that at 42, I'd be too old to worry about my girlfriend's father's opinion of me," Richard remarks.
"He doesn't think you're doing anything bad," you laugh. "I think it's just normal dad behavior."
Richard tilts his head back to smile up at you. "Who knows? Maybe soon I'll be acting like that, too."
Your stomach flutters, and you give him a shy smile, which is ridiculous, because it's not like this is the first time the topic of children has come up. But those conversations were general, merely an agreement that at some point, yes, you both wanted them. This time, however, it seems like Richard is suggesting he wants to start a family with you.
And soon.
"Maybe," you say faintly. You glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. "The soup's ready."
Before Richard can reply, you've already carefully extricated yourself from the sofa and are in the kitchen, ladling soup into two bowls. You hear rustling from the living room and quickly place the bowls, spoons, and napkins onto a tray, just as Richard is standing. He sits back down, the blankets in a heap in his lap, as you carry the tray towards him and place it on the coffee table.
You eat in silence, your thighs touching and elbows occasionally bumping. You can feel the heat of his skin--whether from fever or from something else--even through the layers of his sweatpants and the blankets. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch the spoon disappear into his mouth, watch him lick a tiny drop of broth from his bottom lip.
"It's good," he says, startling you from your observations.
When did eating soup become so erotic?
"I'll tell Mum," you reply, then mentally kick yourself. I'll tell Mum? What kind of half-brained response is that?
As usual, he finishes eating before you do and waits patiently, watching the telly with moderate interest. Your attention alternates between him and the programme. He notices, if the slight twitch of his lips is any indication. When he shifts, causing his bare arm to rub against yours, you place your spoon down, though there is still some soup left in your bowl, and shove the blankets out of his lap.
"What are you-?" he begins, then goes quiet as you straddle his thighs, your intention clear. "Love, we shouldn't. Not now."
"Are you feeling unwell?"
"Not at the moment," he replies. His hands find your hips seemingly on instinct.
You arch a brow. "Are you physically unable?"
He glances down at his lap through the gap between your bodies. "Definitely not."
"Then there's no problem."
You lean in to kiss him, but he stops you. "Yes, there is," he says. "You might catch my flu."
"Doubtful," you snort. "I hardly ever get sick."
He looks conflicted, so you try something that you hope will convince him.
"If you expect to be a father soon, we really ought to practice."
His pupils dilate, and even before he captures your lips in a searing kiss, you know you've won.
Richard pulls you down into his lap as he mouths at your neck, leaving gentle nips and soothing kisses. That was one of the first things you'd learned about him--his fondness for neck-kissing. He'd quickly discovered the spot that made you shiver, and even a year later, he still hasn't grown tired of your reaction against his body.
His lips move lower, to the tops of your breasts, but you stop him when he tries to unbutton your blouse.
"I need you, Richard," you say, grinding your pelvis against his. "Now."
He groans and pushes up your skirt, trailing his hands up your bare thighs until they reach your core. His fingers find wetness there, even through the thin fabric of your underwear. He hooks a thumb into the waistband on each side and pulls down, letting the garment drop to the floor. Your breath quickens as he strokes your vagina, alternating between teasing touches and dips into your entrance. At the same time, his thumb circles your clit, gently at first, then with increasing pressure and speed when your hips buck. Before your pleasure can reach its peak, you push his hand away and tug down his sweatpants to reveal his erection. The fact that he's not wearing his black boxer briefs is incredibly erotic.
You wrap your hand around the base, stroking along the length to the engorged head. Fluid leaks from the tip, and as your thumb circles the glans, his breath hitches. While you slowly bring him apart, you kiss him, your tongue swirling sensually against his and mimicking the rhythm of your hand. Richard feels like he's on fire. His skin is hot beneath your hands, and you're sure that it's only partly because of his fever.
When he can't take the teasing any longer, he wraps his hand over yours on his cock to position it at your entrance. Your gazes lock as you slide down onto him, his groan echoing your hitched breath. He had been cold all day, but now with your body atop his and your tight, slick heat enveloping him, he is finally, deliciously warm.
Richard guides you up with his hands on your hips, then thrusts up as he lowers you. He repeats the motion over and over, relishing the way your lips part to emit sounds that send bolts of desire to his groin.
His pace increases, and he pulls you against him, your arms wrapping around his neck to steady yourself. Breaths mingle as you exchange messy, open-mouthed kisses, your teeth occasionally clacking together from the lack of finesse. Your coupling is desperate, almost frantic now. Fevered. You wonder if maybe you hadn't caught his flu after all.
He shifts. His cock spears into that bundle of nerves, sending heat to pool in your belly. You moan and arch your back and pant with each thrust. Encouraged by your sounds, Richard continues the onslaught with increasing vigor, until finally, gloriously, your body tenses and your head falls back, exposing your neck to Richard's greedy lips. You cry out, inner walls clenching around him to bring him to his own release, which washes over him with a deep, loud groan. He pulls you down hard, as his hips jerk up erratically.
Your hands move to the back of his head, holding him to you, while he descends from his high. Richard's breath is hot on your neck, and he tightens his arms around you, breathing in your scent. He feels warm and well and decidedly less cranky than before.
"Thank you," he whispers, and you kiss the top of his head. You don't even care that his hair hasn't been washed in days. "That was the best medicine anyone could have prescribed."
"Well, they do say orgasms are healthy."
His blue eyes glitter with mischief, and a his lips curl suggestively. "Then perhaps I need another dose in a couple hours."
"Cheeky bastard," you quip, allowing him to take you with him as he lies down. You arrange the blankets so that they cover both of you and snuggle into his chest. "Nap first, though."
"Mmm, a nap sounds good," he murmurs, pulling you closer. "And now that you're back, I may actually be able to sleep." Richard kisses your hair, and the last thing you remember before you doze off is his hand lazily stroking your arm.
Three days later, you're the one lying on the sofa under a mountain of blankets.
"My poor love," Richard coos, and it's only slightly tinged with amusement. He looks at the reading on the thermometer and frowns. "It looks like you've caught my flu after all."
You don't say anything, merely cross your arms over your chest, even though Richard can't see them, and sigh.
"What was that about you hardly getting sick?"
"Shut up," you grumble. He laughs, and you're tempted to chuck a pillow at him as he goes into the kitchen to make you soup.
Well, there's one perk to being ill, at least. With Richard's follow-up audition not until next week, he can take care of you.

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