Saturday, June 28, 2014

A Prussia Lemon -- Fester, Double, Shatter

Character: Prussia

Fandom: Hetalia

OC: Rose, hot-headed, auburn hair

Inspiration: Angry sex.  Yup ;)

It hadn't actually been her fault.  She hadn't meant to lock them out of their apartment.  It is just a twist of fate: one of those uncertain, deceptive struggles that life often throws at you.  If anything, it's more Prussia's fault than hers, because he'd been the one complaining about missing the show and how much time it could possibly take to put a fucking dress on.
"What?" he mutters when he hears her say that.  He narrows his eyes at Rose and crosses his arms.  In an annoyed voice, he spits, "You were the one to leave the key on the table.  Inside.  How the fuck did you forget to take the goddamn key?!"  Oh, he's angry.  Angrier even than before, when they'd first realized the mistake.  But luckily, Rose is well equipped at dealing with her sometimes emotional lover, and she just glowers.
"You're the man.  Shouldn't the men remember stuff like that?"  She's not as angry as him, of course, but she'd definitely like for him to stop blaming her whenever something bad happens.  Besides, it had been his fault, or at least partially.  He had been so distracting as they were leaving that of course she'd forgotten to take the key.  If he hadn't been putting his hands everywhere and giving her those eyes, then her common sense would have been firmly retained.
Gilbert lets out a laugh, one of those I-can't-believe-this-is-happening-to-me laughs, and turns around to face the stairs.  Their apartment is on the sixth floor of a rickety old building that literally anyone could walk into, because the safety system is shit.  The wallpapered walls are peeling and the paint is chipping off the stairway railing.  Theirs is the only door on this landing, because to the right is the emergency landing.  It's an old fashioned layout, not like the modern duplexes, but it's cheap and close to Rose's work place.  Gilbert usually doesn't mind the building.  It has that old charm which is rarely seen in cities anymore, and besides, he doesn't need much to live on.  But tonight, the stairway feels suffocating and his anger clouds all of those sentiments, and Gilbert just wants to get out.
"You're right," he growls, his voice low and dangerous but not very scary, to Rose.  She slides down the door and watches as he turns back to her, eyes sweeping over her figure as she sits on the floor.  Her dress is hiked up to her thighs and her hair is messy from the last five minutes, when she'd constantly been running her fingers through it.  She looks tired, too, and a bit upset, but mostly just accepting.  This is life.  It happens.  They can just go to a hotel for the night and call the landlord or a locksmith tomorrow.
But Gilbert's not accepting.  He's angry.  Maybe not at her but at the night in general, and at the fact that nothing ever seems to go right for him and he's got the worst luck and it drives him insane.  And maybe he's a bit jealous of that accepting attitude, the way Rose can just take things into stride and turn them into blessings.  Whichever, he bites out an annoyed, "You're right, I am a man," in response to her previous words, which he saw as a way of her questioning that manliness.  He absolutely can't have her questioning that part of him. 
Rose raises her eyebrows and looks at him, a little bit confused.  The smile she sends him is bathed in amusement, like she's not sure where he's going with this and hadn't expected him to so adamantly insist it.  She tilts her head to the side and says lightly, "I know you're a man, Gilbert.  That's exactly what's wrong with you."  He glares.  She shrugs.
He starts pacing, spewing curse words that would make a sailor cringe.  Some of his words are English, things he'd picked up on during his time with the English speaking countries and most of Europe, for that matter.  They are bright words, pushed past angry lips that make them even brighter, like scintillating promises and threats and warnings.  Most are German words, because he knows much more of those and can string them together faster.  They spin off his tongue like never ending seasons that burn, crush, freeze, bloom, and Rose watches in mild interest because he mutters them so quickly and she's always liked foreign curse words.  They amuse her.
But she's not really amused when he mutters, "Fuck it, this is all your fault, where are we gonna sleep - "Wie zu Hölle, bin ich an solch eine bescheuerte Frau geraten?" [1]  No, that doesn't really amuse her.  Especially when Rose can understand what he's saying.  She immediately switches from lighthearted to furious, her eyes a boiling inferno, her mouth twisting into a dangerous scowl.  Gilbert doesn't even see her until she's pushing his face into the wall and pinning him against it with her body, but by then he's nothing but a snarling, angry mess and they're gone.  Lost in a fury that has no outlet.  Save, perhaps, one.
Can he help himself if her anger turns him on?  No, of course not, and why would he want to stop it anyhow?  Still, he hardly notices that little shift of arousal because he's too busy eating wood, and it takes him a few seconds to get out of the insulting hold because he really hadn't expected it.  But when he does get out of it and turns around, Rose just pushes his back against the wall instead, and Gilbert doesn't mind this position as much because he realizes what that shift of arousal is doing to him.  And speaking of eating wood, he's got a lovely feeling that he'll be making her sample some, too.
But Rose has other plans for the night, most of which involve kicking his ass down the six flights of stairs that delve off into the darkness to their immediate right.  She glares at him, their faces inches from each other, and even though he's taller than her she still looks fairly intimidating.  And really, what can he do?  What can he do when she's got her body pressed against his, when they're totally alone in the dark, when they're stuck here anyway with all that delicious hot blistering wicked anger?
He kisses her.  Rose immediately makes a disgruntled noise and tries to jerk back, but his hands are already tangling into her hair and he's pulling her in for more.  His mouth is already taking her down and devouring her senselessly and clashing angrily against hers.  And it is a clash, that kiss.  It's nothing but teeth and snarls and fury.  It's not at all romantic and not even a little bit gentle, but God it feels good.  And even Rose has to admit that it isn't the worst kiss she's ever had.  The anger she feels dives into a furious arousal that overcomes her far too quickly, but she fights it off because she wants to see how far Gilbert will take this.  How much he'll make her crazy with his semi-forced kisses and his own angry desire.
"You bastard - " she tries to hiss, but her words are immediately swallowed and muffled and they turn into a vibrating mess that can't be understood.  And Gilbert is growling and his hands are slipping away from her head because he'd like to touch her in other places, too.  He moves to roughly squeeze her butt, heaving her against the bulge in his trousers and bucking his hips against her.  She bites her lip but he can't see the reluctant passion in her eyes, because he's too busy marking red kisses down her neck and over her collarbone.  His fingers are shifting over the back of her dress and then he's hastily jerking at the zipper of it, tugging it down before she can stop him and struggling to get the fabric off. 
But Rose won't go down without a fight.  She snarls and tries to keep the fabric on, and Gilbert doesn't appreciate it because the next moment, he's slamming her against the wall and victoriously eyeing the heap of her clothes, which are kicked away before any more complaints can be voiced.
He pins her body with his, overcoming all her struggles.  He inhales them, loves them, enjoys the way she squirms at his touch and tries to bat his hands away from her.  Because a part of him knows that she's not really against this, that she's only putting up a fight for the sake of it all.  He can see how much she likes his touches and his kisses and his rough handling of her.  He can see it in her eyes as she stares sightlessly at the ceiling.  He can see it in the way she haplessly grasps at his shirt and bites her lip and swallows her moans.
His mouth descends angrily on her breast, and he's not gentle, not even a little bit.  His teeth clash against her skin and his kisses are harsh sucks that make her red and delirious.  If someone hears them, or happens to be coming home late tonight and is coming their way, there is literally no place to hide.  But in a way, the knowledge of this makes Rose all the crazier, and she sinks and trembles against the wall.  She trembles even more when Gilbert forces her panties down with both hands and curls his fingers around her rear, stroking over her heat and circling his hips against hers at the same time.
He's so hard, and it feels so good, and all Rose really wants is for him to sink himself inside her and just take her already.  But then she remembers that she's supposed to be angry with him, and that they're fighting, and that Gilbert is really just taking advantage of the situation to get her back and to dissipate her anger.  That thought makes her mad.  She snaps her eyes open and looks up at her brusque lover, who is now blinking at her, inches away.  But he's distracted, distracted by the way his hips are roiling over hers, distracted by the way she's making his trousers wet with her arousal.  He's distracted and Rose decides to act.
A moment later, she's hooking her ankle around his and jerking it to the side.  He stumbles, surprised, and she twists him around and pushes him against the wall again.  Before he can get his bearings back, she's swiftly undoing his belt and thrusting her hand into his trousers, wrapping her fingers around his hard cock and making him groan, sink back, melt.  Her other hand rips at his dress shirt, forcefully popping the buttons open (some clatter to the floor), and pressing harsh kisses over his skin.  Her revenge is sweet but painful, and all her harsh little kisses and bites leave Gilbert clutching at her, overcome by the heightened pleasure of having her hand around him, pumping him roughly, and her mouth doing silly things to his head. 
She is rough.  God, she's taking no mercy out on him.  His cock almost hurts from her harsh handling of it.  There's no soft friction between them, no lube to make her touches easier.  It's just her palm against his skin, dry and fierce and angry, forcing that pitiful pleasure all over him, making it capture him and swallow him whole.
"F-F-Frau - !" [2] he cries out and shudders, then glares at her because he hadn't meant to say that words so pathetically.  She doesn't stop biting over his nipple, or struggling to get his shirt out of her way, but she does look at up him and smirks.  He tries to sneer but that goes wrong for him, too, and it only makes his expression into a gratifying mess of pleasure.  The pleasure might have something to do with the way she's pinching lightly, quickly over his tip and dragging his pre-cum over her thumb.  He feels like he might burst at any moment, but he really hopes he doesn't because that would be really lackluster, coming to the painful way she thrusts him.  He wouldn't forgive himself, either.
He grits his teeth and huddles over her form, which is now kneeling before him.  She's kissing/nipping/biting over his abdomen, leaving furious red welts everywhere she goes, but it feels so God damned good that Gilbert can't even work up a complaint at how she's treating him and defiling his awesome body.  He watches her thrust her hand over him, watches her devour his skin, and mutters and helpless but annoyed, "Scheisse." [3]  Then he swallows thickly and says, "Fucking…suck me off already…Frau - !"  Because he really can't take anymore of those dry touches.  He needs her mouth, tight and wet around him.  He needs it so badly that he think he might cry.  And he would sooner kill himself than cry from this kind of torture.
Rose glares up at him, pumping his cock faster.  She watches him crumble above her, watches the way his expression is flickering with emotion and anger and helpless pleasure and pain.  But she won't give in, not the way he wants her to.  She leans in and licks over his skin by the hem of his trousers, then murmurs lowly, "First, apologize for saying that right in front of me."  She will drag an apology out of him if it's the last thing she does. 
Gilbert stares at her in surprise and annoyance and all sorts of other pitiful emotions that he'd like to ignore.  He can't believe that she is so evil, that she'd rather hear him apologize than let him come.  That she's going to use his arousal as a way to control him.  He grits his teeth and twists his mouth shut, silently telling her that he'll never apologize, at least not when she's using his cock as leverage.  Rose can't help but think that she likes this.  Likes the way he fights back and doesn't immediately give in.  She smirks.
She's already kneeling in front of him, so the next step of her wicked plan is fairly simple.  She drags his cock toward her as she thrusts her hand over it, and brings the tip of him into her mouth.  Then she sucks.  Painfully, deliciously.  And Gilbert can't stop himself from bucking his hips forward and muttering out a breathless"Gott! Du wirst mich zum kommen bringen, Frau - !" [4]  And he's about to, he's so close, but then Rose is popping her lips away from him and dragging her hand to his base slowly, so fucking slowly that absolutely no pleasure can be garnered from her touch.  There is nothing, nothing except the hopeless yearning for the end.
He's so God damned angry with her that he thinks he sees stars clouding over his vision and turning it red.  He glares down at her through his crimson eyes and tightens his grip of her hair.  Then he forces her face against his cock and she cries out a little in surprise, and a little desire too, because his shaft is suddenly rubbing against her cheek and she quite likes the sight of him.
She still wants her apology, though.  So she raises her eyebrows and turns her gaze to his cock, which strains tight and angrily into the air.  Then she looks up at his face, tilts her head, and says, "You want me to finish you off?  I'll suck you right to your finish.  You want that?"  He swallows a spike of hard desire that comes from hearing those hot words, and growls because he knows what she's doing, but he can't stop himself from nodding shortly.  He's not surprised when she doesn't give in.  She can be ridiculously stubborn.  She leans in and licks over his cock, her tongue burning wet heat against his shaft and making him see more of those stars.  But then the sliver of pleasure ends and she whispers, "Then apologize to me, Gilbert."  And she jerks away, leaving him gasping and breathless against the wall.
He doesn't like this.  He doesn't like being dominated by someone else, especially when it comes to sex.  He notices that her hand isn't really pumping him anymore.  It's just slowly dragging over him, too slowly for him to feel much pleasure, and so he decides to take advantage of her lack of power and do something about his pitiful situation.
Rose had (stupidly) thought that she'd taken the fight out of him.  But suddenly he's grasping her upper arms, dragging her into the air and pushing her against wall for the second time that night.  And their roles are reversed so quickly that Rose can barely keep track of his movements, and the fight is definitely not gone from his eyes.  Definitely not.
He pants, overcome by his sudden power, his sudden control and dominance.  He gasps because he's so fucking hard and it hurts and he's going to get her back for this.  He's going to fuck her so hard that she's going to hurt, too.  And as for her apology, it'll have to wait for now because literally all he can think of is stuffing himself as deeply into her as physically possible.
His trousers are still tight around his hips but luckily his member is very much removed from their confinements.  He jerks her legs into the air and shoves his cock against her core, rolling their arousals together and sighing at the intense pleasure it brings.  Rose arches her back and moans, feeling helpless but deliriously good, but very wary about the glint in his eye.  He smirks and mutters roughly, "Do you know how much that hurt, woman?  Having you touch me like that?  It felt like you were stripping my skin away piece by piece…"  He rolls his hips into hers again and she gasps, digs her nails into his shoulders, clutches at the dress shirt that still hangs loosely around his torso.
He'll make her crazy with his words alone, she thinks.  But it gets worse, of course it does.  This is Prussia, after all, and he wants to remind her of it.  He growls angrily, "I won't be gentle with you tonight.  I'm not gonna be gentle, Rose."  His warning is a wicked promise that makes her toes curl and she can't wait, can't wait for his roughness.  She swallows thickly as he mutters, "It's gonna hurt.  I'm gonna make you scream."  His words dive off into a smattering of his native tongue but she can barely hear him, now.  She's far too busy paying attention to the way he's suddenly stuffing his swollen head into her core.
She cries out when he snaps his hips roughly into hers, pushing her forcefully back into the wall and hilting himself completely.  He's so deep that she can feel his base against her clit and it does hurt, really badly, but God it feels good too.  Especially when he starts off at a pace that leaves her miles behind, hanging precariously against the wall and him, clinging to his body as he has his fill of her.  Takes and takes and takes and gives, too, just a little, just enough to make her whimper and press moans against his neck. 
He gasps and pushes his forehead against her hair, slamming his hips into hers and bruising her, annihilating her, making her voice rise and fall.  His cock is a fast drag against her inner walls and it makes her crazy, and she thinks she might come already and it's only been a few minutes.  But Gilbert doesn't care if she comes, he wants her to, and he kisses her cheek and jaw and ear.  His kisses are the only romantic part of their union but that's okay.  The anger behind their movements makes for an intense, numbing pleasure that's got them both moaning, clutching at each other, thrumming towards their end faster and faster.
He's going to com, too, and he lets out a desperate, "Rose…Rose…mmmm…" that makes her gasp and pant and tangle her fingers into his hair.  They're both so sensitive that it doesn't take very long, really, to find their end.  But just before Gilbert let's himself come he murmurs a half delirious apology against her hair, and it is that gentleness in the midst of all this fury that makes Rose buck her hips forward and come, too.  And their ends are rough, too, and not very fulfilling because they're still aroused, and he's still hard.  But he spills himself into her and she pants, breathless against the wall.  And it takes them all of three seconds before their mouths are angrily crashing against each other, kissing roughly and headily and crazily, clashing with pleasure and a combined need that makes them feel weightless.
"I already want you again," Rose laughs, surprised at her suddenly hearty libido.  But tonight Gilbert isn't surprised, and he won't deny her what he wants too, at least if his half hard cock as anything to say on the matter.  He growls playfully and steps away from the wall, but he doesn't realize that his legs are boneless and they stumble, together, to the floor.  Rose is laughing again and Gilbert rolls over her and shuts her up.  And suddenly it's starting all over, and their hips are pushing and their connecting again, and Gilbert is thrusting into her and surprising her and God, she's so fucking wet and he can hear every thrust.  And by the time he's had her fill of her, and her of him, the sun is beginning to color the sky with a lighter shade of blue and they've got a feeling that they've woken up their neighbors.  But neither care, because they're too busy falling into that angry, passionate sort of love that very rarely comes into existence, but has the ability to color their lives very brilliantly indeed.


[1] "Wie zu Hölle, bin ich an solch eine bescheuerte Frau geraten?" … How the fuck did I get stuck with such a dumb woman?

[2] Frau … Woman

[3] Scheisse … Shit

[4] Gott! Du wirst mich zum kommen bringen, Frau - !" … God! You'll make me come, woman - !

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

A Hibari Kyouya Lemon -- The Dawn Is Ferocious

Character: TYL!Hibari Kyoya

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! [TYL!]

OC: Victoria, half Korean-half English, doll-like

Inspiration: Reborn is throwing a ball and Hibari is forced to attend…so in his boredom/annoyance he decides to entertain himself ;)

Reborn enjoys outdoing himself.  Everyone knows it, so it is no surprise that, when he decides to throw a ball for Tsuna's birthday, he has stepped up his game yet again. 
It is very impressive, the layout and the finer details, such as the music and the food and the lighting.  Reborn definitely put a good amount of time in setting it all up.  (Or, more likely, paying someone else to do it for him.)  He is also enjoying taking all the credit for it, and is smiling smugly as he surveys his work.  Beside him, Tsuna looks happy but a little lost, as he always is in these social situations.  And rightfully so.  Everyone who is anyone to the Vongola has shown up.  Even the people who usually don't show up unless there is a promise of a good time.  (I.e. a fight.)
Hibari Kyouya hates social calls, gatherings, get togethers, parties, or any manner of public affairs.  That is perhaps why he is standing off to the side, trying to melt into the shadows, glaring at any who dares to come near him.  He has little choice, though.  Not attending the herbivore's party would be inciting the baby's wrath, and leaving said party early would reap similar results.  So he just blinks out from his secluded place and turns his eyes around the room, bored and annoyed out of is mind.
Everyone else seems to be enjoying the festivities, though.  Dino Cavallone and his men are laughing (too loudly) a few tables over.  Takeshi Yamamoto is grinning (too happily) while he dances with a girl in a blue dress.  Even Hayato Gokudera seems less pessimistic than usual, and he stands beside the 10th Vongola boss looking far too pleased to be there.  It makes Kyouya extremely annoyed and he moves his eyes somewhere else, anywhere else as his twisted boredom and anger rise to the surface of his expression.
There's a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye and he latches onto it, turning his gaze to the dance floor.  Figure are twirling and dipping and gracefully shifting over it, and it's crowded so it takes him a moment to catch sight of that yellow dress again.  But when he does, Kyouya isn't entirely disappointed by the sight he is met with.  In fact, he wonders how he hadn't noticed that woman before now.
Victoria looks subtly stunning, in a way few women can successfully pull off.  Her dress is simple, but colorful, and it enchants her like a spell as it crashes to the floor in waves of lightweight fabric.  Because she is dancing, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright.  A little twist of hair has fallen from her elegant hairstyle and now hangs delightfully against her neck.  As she's pulled along by her dance partner, her long earrings bounce against her cheeks and she laughs, laughs like she's having the most amazing night.
Kyuoya stares at that smile, wonders at the way it makes her eyes into diamonds, at the way it makes her skin glow.  Perhaps he has never realized how lovely she is before this moment.  Perhaps he has, but he just never cared to admit it.  But now, in his boredom, Kyouya muses over this scintillating fact.  He's got little else to occupy his time with.
She looks nice in yellow.  It reminds him of Hibird.  It's almost the exact same shade, only her dress is a little bit lighter and paler, like dawn.  Her figure looks good, too.  Kyouya doesn't remember ever noticing it before, though this seems hard to believe now that he's looking at it now.  But her waist is small (perfect to grasp and drag and clutch), and her legs are long (long enough to curl around him), and her neck is arching (the best place to kiss, and bite and growl).  And of course all this isn't very surprising, because Victoria is a Vongola agent and is naturally very fit from her work, but tonight it makes Kyouya's interest pique.  He wonders how this has gone unnoticed by him.  It certainly hasn't gone unnoticed by many others, he realizes.
There are many pretty women here tonight, but Victoria stands out because she rarely dresses up or makes herself pretty.  That side of her, which is ferocious and firm, has always secretly interested Kyouya in the past.  But tonight she is a doll, dressed in her finest set of clothes, hair carefully brushed, set in a special place to be looked over.  Many people are doing exactly that.
Kyouya doesn't like it.  Victoria has been a middle man, of sorts, between Tsuna and the Cloud branch for many years.  He has seen a lot of her because of that, and has slowly gotten to know her mannerisms and personality.  If anyone deserves to look at her, it should be him.
And he does, look at her that is.  He crosses his arms and leans against a pillar and watches her through seemingly lazy eyes.  And after a few minutes of this, the dance comes to an end and Victoria turns and their eyes clash into each other's.  Kyouya isn't really embarrassed to be caught staring.  He blinks at her languidly, watching her stare at him.  Victoria pauses, then walks slowly toward him as if approaching a wild beast.  And he doesn't glare at her when she nears him.  The thought doesn't even cross his mind.
She sidles up beside him with an almost victorious smile, like she's proud that the infamous recluse isn't snapping her head off just for standing next to him.  It's an impressive feat, to her, and Victoria stands tall and proud as she looks out over the crowd of people.  She can feel Kyouya giving her a sideways look, but she doesn't say anything.  He seems to appreciate the silence, so she lets him be the first to break it.  After a few minutes, he does.  "Herbivore.  What are you doing over here?" 
Finally, she looks at him, and he's taken aback at the full force of her bright eyes.  Up close, she looks even prettier.  Her dress creates perfect accents over her figure, and he has to force himself to keep his eyes trained on hers. 
She's very flippant.  It's her usual personality.  She likes to do things her own way, always unconventional.  Most of all, she's unafraid, and it both amuses and infuriates him.  Her lack of fear also makes him extremely curious.  He watches as she gives him an almost predatory smirk and murmurs, "You told me to come over here, Kyouya." 
Disrespectful.  No one has ever dared to say his name like that.  But from her it sounds oddly delicious, and Kyouya stares at her mouth for a moment before turning his eyes into glaring shifts of darkness that pin her down, down against the marble floor.  How she loves those eyes of his, the strength and power and dominance of them.  She smirks.
"I didn't," he denies, because he doesn't fully understand what she means.  He never made any gesture or voiced any words.  His very presence should have made her turn and run, and yet here she is.  She lilts out a small laugh and raises an eyebrow, responding with a quirky, "You were staring at me.  That means you want me…" she pauses, letting the first half of her sentence sink into him, letting him take those words and decipher them as he sees fit.  Then she smirks wider and finishes with a smooth, "…To come over here, of course."  Of course.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like disagreement, and turns away from her.  His brush off has little effect, however.  Victoria just takes it into stride and uses the moment to look him over.  He doesn't notice because he's staring adamantly into the party.
Victoria doesn't like to admit these kinds of things, but she's noticed Kyouya long before he'd noticed her.  The eager, wilder side of her had been looking for him even since the beginning, when she'd first stepped into the room.  But he'd taken his time to arrive, as per usual.  This is the first proper look she's gotten so far.  She takes advantage of it.
To say that Kyouya looks good in a suit would be a pathetic understatement.  If anything, he looks positively devilish and extremely careless at the same time.  Like he knows he looks good and doesn't care anymore.  She likes that.  She also likes the way those trousers hug his legs and how his tucked in shirt shows off the lean muscle of his abdomen and -- "What do you want?" Kyouya suddenly cuts in, and Victoria realizes with a jolt that he'd been watching her watch him.  And she should feel embarrassed but really, all she can muster is a hurried, excited anticipation. 
He takes her in silently, demandingly, blinking realities at her from where he stands.  The purple of his tie seems to make his black hair and eyes all the darker, like she could fall into them at any time and never get out again.  That even the little parts of him could be so powerful is riveting, and it makes Victoria wonder about other things, other parts.  A devious smile creeps over her mouth and she simpers just a little, goes back to looking him over, murmurs, "What do I want?"  She peeks up at him with a smirk.  "This party," she finishes, "I'd like it to end."  She's bored.  So bored and filled with ideas to stop the boredom, if only Kyouya would stop being such a prude.  She idly reaches out and drags her hand down his arm.  The feel of his suit, the texture of it, the hint of muscle beneath fabric, makes her almost sigh out with pleasure.  Except she doesn't get that far.
Kyouya growls and lunges forward, taking her completely by surprise.  He turns her around and pushes her none too gently against the pillar, both hands grasping her shoulder.  His expression is angry and makes her reluctantly aroused.  But he's not, and he mutters a dark, "Don't touch me, Herbivore."  She waits, hanging precariously against the wall and him, and swallows.  Surely he knows what she wants.  Surely he's aware of just how crazy he's making her.  He can't really be that thick.
He's certainly not.  She realizes this as he follows her body back, suddenly pressing his hips into hers and devouring the space between their bodies with a well placed thrust.  He's a little hard, and the feel of those bulging trousers makes Victoria clutch his forearms and push her head back against the marble.  She gasps a little and Kyouya growls, but doesn't kiss her.  She wonders if he ever will.  He mutters sharply, "Don't touch me unless I give permission, Herbi- "
"Herbivore, yes, I know," Victoria hurriedly finishes, and drags herself forward, pushing her mouth onto his because she just can't help it.  She's wanted to kiss him since the first time she'd met him, years before.  And to have him so close makes her insane.  But the pleasure lasts only a moment before Kyouya's biting her lip hard, and she tastes blood, and his hand is wrapping itself around her neck and forcing her back.  She's slammed against the pillar and left gasping, exhilarated and wicked against the stone.
He's glaring down at her, but Victoria can see a hint of reluctant pleasure in those heady eyes of his.  Like he enjoyed her move but doesn't want to admit it.  And Victoria smirks, even though her lip is throbbing painfully and it's hard to breathe with his fingers around her neck like that.  She smirks and Kyouya knows that it'll be nearly impossible to dominate her completely, because she's a fighter.  But that makes the process of breaking her in even more delicious.
This is much more interesting than watching other people have fun.  He likes pressing her into the shadows and watching her tremble for him.  He likes the fact that they aren't entirely invisible to the other partiers, if only they cared to study their shaded pillar.  And somehow he realizes that he's always wanted this, ever since she first stepped into his life with her smug smile and her laughing, disrespectful eyes.  He stares at those mischievous eyes now and would like nothing more than to see her tremble in other ways, to shower her with all his dominance and desire and see if she's quite as smug after he's through with her.
"Kyouya…" she drawls, skimming her fingers up his arm.  His eyes darken at her in warning, but she fearlessly ignores it and murmurs, "Let's go back to my room and fuck, hmm?"  Then she smiles, as if she's merely commenting on some mundane aspect of the party.  As if inviting him for a quick fuck in a back room is perfectly commonplace in situations like these.  And while she's never said those words to anyone else before, the incentive to fulfill them now makes her very delirious indeed.
Kyouya doesn't seem to have a reaction, though.  He raises an eyebrow at her and looks entirely unimpressed.  But Victoria can also see the slightest hint of interest clouding over his eyes, and decides to push just a little further to make it spark in her favor.  Before Kyouya really knows what she's doing, her hand is pressing against his crotch and squeezing the bulge of his trousers, and his eyes are flashing in anger and something else, something that reminds her very much of passion. 
It makes sense, to her, that Kyouya's passion would be of the angry sort.  She isn't surprised and certainly isn't afraid.  And when Kyouya growls fiercely and fluidly tells her, "409, Herbivore.  Don't keep me waiting," Victoria nearly collapses in a relief that has to do with the nice little fact that this party happens to be taking place in a Vongola hotel.  And, of course, she's happy that Kyouya hadn't rejected her outright.  That's always a good thing.
He pushes away from her a moment later, walking smoothly from the room.  She's a little impressed by the ease of his gate, the way he moves even with that lovely arousal serving as a distraction.  But of course Hibari Kyouya wouldn't give his predicament away.  Neither does to pay his final respects to Tsuna, even though the door he exits from is in plain sight of the 10th's chair.  Seeing this as a possible hindrance that might disturb them later, Victoria decides to smooth the matter over herself, though she'd much rather follow Kyouya to his room.
When she approaches her boss, Tsuna looks up at her and smiles warmly, unaware of the state she's in or of the recent happenings behind that scintillating pillar.  Reborn, however, gives her a strange little smile that says, 'I am not so oblivious.'  She clears her throat and gives a respectful bow, then smiles her usual cheeky grin, "Happy birthday, Tsuna."  She's known him for a very long time, and has never called him anything fancy even though Reborn is always telling her to do so.  But Tsuna just smiles back and mumbles a 'thank you', and she explains that she'll be making her leave of the party because she's feeling a little dizzy.  And it's not really a lie, because she is feeling dizzy.  Except that dizziness is entirely the result of her own arousal, which spikes through her even now, her skin tingling with the reminder of Kyouya's demanding touch.
She escapes fairly quickly after that, hoping that Reborn won't feel the need to look for them afterward and punish them for leaving early.  But this worry vanishes as soon as the doors close behind her, and Victoria hurries to the forth floor, to room 409.  When she gets there, Kyouya is leaning just outside the door with his arms crossed and his eyes closed.  The fact that he's waiting for her makes her warm and eager, and she steps toward him quickly.  He opens his eyes as she approaches, and for a moment they just stand there, staring at each other.  But then Kyouya pushes off the wall, kicks his door open, and walks calmly inside.  Victoria smirks and follows.
It is like entering a lion's den.  There is no equivalent emotion, nothing she has ever felt that is quite like this anticipation.  And Kyouya is the lion, sauntering around, blinking headily at her, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.  To make her his prey.  To devour her.  She swallows, closes the door, steps forward.  And, because Kyouya isn't yet making a move and she's impatient, Victoria steps forward again and reaches for him.
He doesn't bite her head off like the last time she touched him, and she hums appreciatively as her hands dance across his chest and start loosening his tie.  He watches her every move.  When she goes to tug the tie away, he lets her.  That's about as much freedom as he gives her, though.
Kyouya's in charge here.  He's always been in charge, of many things.  She is about to become one of those things.  But she doesn't mind, and when he tells her in an almost careless voice to, "Take that dress off," Victoria eagerly do so.  She unzips the dress in one fluid movement and it swishes to the floor in heaps of yellow fabric.  Her skin glows in the dim light of the room, and Kyouya takes his time in admiring her.  Her long legs, the smooth expanse of her abdomen, the small little bralette she'd been wearing under the dress, which is very nearly see through as it splays out over her breasts.
He runs his eyes over her idly, almost dismissively, as he shifts out of his suit jacket.  The restrictive suit has been annoying him for quite some time and he's relieved to be rid of it.  But he's got other ideas as to how to go about doing it.  So does she, apparently.
"Shall I help you, Kyouya?" Victoria drawls, almost in amusement.  He shoots her a glare and, after a brief moment deliberating, he says shortly, "Come here, Herbivore."  And she raises her eyebrows and steps forward, brushing her hands over the buttons of his dress shirt.  As she slowly undoes them, she decides it's a good time to set some things straight. 
"Before we get any farther," she callously says, "I'd like for you to call me something less degrading."  She raises her eyes to his and they stare at each other, silently challenging, until Victoria pulls her gaze away and eases his shirt off his chest.  She forgets about him answering her, because her attention is drawn to his bare chest and the toned muscles beneath his skin and the desire to lean down and touch him.  Kyouya watches the desire rise in her gaze and smirks very slightly.  It makes his entire expression burn like fire, and Victoria shivers when she catches sight of it.  He steps forward, his eyes threatening, challenging, until he's got her pressed into the wall.  That's when he decides to pounce.
His hands slam into the wall beside her head and his mouth comes crashing down on hers, interrupting a very surprised, "Kyou-mmmph!"  The muffled moan that her words get transformed into makes him purr in satisfaction, and he presses his entire body against hers.  She thinks she might collapse from the headiness of it all.
But she doesn't, collapse that is.  Kyouya wouldn't let her even if she had.  He's got her trapped, wedged between his body and he won't let her go until he's thoroughly ready to.  And she's frozen there, to that spot, unwilling to let go of her hold on his shoulders, unwilling to pull away from his kiss, which dominates her and makes her see more than just stars.  The whole universe opens up before her endlessly, ceaselessly.  She's got no choice but to kiss him back, so she does.
His tongue is hot and sinfully wet against her bottom lip.  When Victoria doesn't immediately open her mouth for him, Kyouya growls and nips at her skin, roughly enough to make her feel a twinge of pain.  She lets out an indignant outcry that drags and disappears through the kiss, and Kyouya pushes his tongue against hers and victoriously deepens the kiss.  Her head spins and she clutches him tightly.  And yet, when he suddenly rolls his hips against hers, Victoria still feels miles away, flying off into some grand world that is limitless and weightless and relentless.
She likes the feeling.  Likes the way it makes her bold, bolder than before.  And she takes advantage of it because it is too good to go to waste.  So she hooks one leg around Kyouya's hips and pulls him closer, buries her hand into his soft hair, digs her nails into the skin of his back and drags her hand down, down.  And he, who certainly hadn't been expecting the move but probably should have, pauses the fierce kiss and closes his eyes briefly.  Like the pleasure has gone to his head (either one) and he can't breathe or think straight any longer. 
It's a nice sight, that blissful confusion, but it doesn't last for very long.  Kyouya recovers at an alarmingly fast rate, and soon he's pulling back entirely, dragging his hands over Victoria's waist, and heaving her with him.  "Ohh are you tired of kissing me already?" she purrs, smirking against him.  He glances down at her and smirks right back, and for a moment she's lost, lost in that smile and the way it makes her want to burn
"No," he lazily drawls, then sweeps her up into his arms in a very sudden movement that leaves her gasping.  The next moment he's dumping her rather recklessly on the mattress, which has been beckoning to them since the moment they'd entered the room.  She makes a surprised noise as she's dropped, but before she can complain or say anything at all, Kyouya's pushing himself after her.  He crawls up the bed, over her figure, and she's breathless because he really does look like a predator, or a carnivore, or whatever it is he likes to call himself.  Every movement is filled with power, such power that she can't even describe.  And right now it's raw and unfiltered and directed, channeled right at her.  He pushes her hair out of her face and mutters darkly, "I'm not anywhere close to being done with you, Herbivore."
It's inevitable, the nickname, but Victoria can't get in a complaint because then Kyouya's pressing his entire body against hers and his mouth is headily moving over her lips.  His tongue rubs against her tongue.  His eyes meet her eyes.  It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for her to fall away from their would-be dispute.  She'd fully expected to be a challenging bed partner tonight, but apparently such a thing is easier said than done.  Because when Kyouya kisses her like this, Victoria wants no part in teasing touches.  All he wants is him.  Raw, unforgiving, ruthless, lethal.
She shakes down into the mattress with a soft moan and clutches him to her, tangling her fingers into his hair and pulling him against her.  He shifts, nestles himself between her legs, and presses his erection against her core.  The hardened feel of him makes her drown, breathlessly grasp at him, kiss him deeper.  But Kyouya doesn't allow her much freedom.  He is in control even now, pulling the strings, deciding just how much pressure to exert on her and just how deeply or slowly or gently to kiss her.
She loves his control.  Loves he firm way he touches her, like his every movement is meant to show her who's in charge.  His mouth leaves hers in a flurry of heat, and Kyouya begins to kiss down her neck.  She cranes it, pushes it back, watches the movement of him as he licks and nips and careens his tongue over her.  It isn't enough for her, or him.  Kyouya wants to be rougher.  He likes being rough, likes the strength of his dominance and the way it makes him feel.  He think Victoria will like it too, so he has little qualms when he goes to attack her bandeau.
It's distracting him, that little piece of fabric.  It's distracting because he can see the tautness of her nipples poking through.  It doesn't offer so much protection as to hide those away, not when she's this aroused and just begging to be sucked, kissed, bitten.  He arches his gaze up to her and gives her a sort of warning smirk, like he's silently telling her that she asked for it, following through with this plan.  Letting him do this to her.  She's asked for it and he's going to take full advantage of it.
The next moment, he's leaning back, eyeing her like she's a hunk of meat, and crossing his arms.  She stares up at him in confused surprise and can't help but feel cold without the weight of him crushing her down.  "Kyouya?" she asks, feeling suddenly very naked even though she's still wearing her underwear.  It's probably the position he's in.  The way he's leaning back, the way his toned arms are flexing, his eyes are flashing, his expression is glimmering with dark amusement and desire and curiosity.
She stares as he suddenly shifts, lunges toward the bedside table and fluidly opens the top drawer.  His movements are slow, normally paced, and they make her burn with impatience.  She glowers at him and asks, "What on earth are you doing?  Why'd you just stop?"  Because he had just been getting to the promising part and she just wants him to touch her already.
He slants a silencing glance at her, finds what he needs, and pulls back into his previous position.  "Shut up, Herbivore," he tells her, but his voice is calm, like the calm just before the storm.  And that's when she brings her gaze down to the thick rod of metal in his hands.  His tonfu.
She's not going to lie: the sight of that weapon has two very different desires roiling over her.  She isn't quite sure what to feel, in fact.  One part of her is excited, interested to see just what he plans to do with those.  The other part has absolutely no interest at all, and wonders if perhaps she had made a mistake in coming here tonight.  She raises an eyebrow and asks in a somewhat dry voice, "…Are you planning on beating me or something?"  Because really, a tonfu?
But Kyouya just raises his eyebrow right back at her, like he's asking her what the hell she's talking about, why would he beat her when he just wants to fuck her?  And Victoria starts to see another use for that tonfu and it makes her want to shiver right into the hotel floor.  This, also, is a realization with two different emotions, and she chuckles to relieve the stress that they bring.  She pushes herself up onto her elbows and stares at him.  "Are you planning on fucking me with those?!"  She'd had no idea that he's this kinky.  If she had, she would have come more prepared, if at all.  But Victoria thinks she still would have come to him, because she's only been pining after him for the past two years.
Kyouya smirks and shrugs, a delicate, feline dip of his shoulders.  But there is really nothing delicate or feline about him, not really.  Not in his predatory gaze or his devilish smirk or the rest of his body, toned and deliriously fit and rock hard.  He presses the tip of that gleaming tonfu against her thigh, drags it up to her covered core, and teasingly traces around it.  Then he murmurs softly, daringly, darkly, "Would you like me to?"  Victoria laughs a surprised laugh, because for some masochistic reason she definitely does want him to, and she's never known herself to have these strange tendencies.  But it can't be helped, and she gasps a short, "Yes," into the air, into the gaping, festering build of Kyouya Hibari's power over her.
He hadn't expected that answer, to be honest.  To she can see how crazy it has made him.  His composure breaks for a single instant before he bundles his control back together again.  But in that instance, Victoria sees more passion and emotion than she'd have thought possible for a man like him.  And it only strengthens her own emotions, her own passion, and makes her feel liberated.
She's still propped up on her elbows, and Kyouya decides that she really needs to be taught some more lessons in submission.  He growls, feeling his arousal spike to levels unknown.  He should have known she's take him by surprise as much as possible.  It's her trademark, after all: surprising him, making him feel like the Herbivore for once.  He decides it's time to regain some of that power.
"Really," he asks, but it's not a question, just a dry pull of syllables over his lips.  He drags his tonfu up her body, skims it over her side, up her arm, then he pushes it rather roughly beneath her chin and forces her to look at him.  She does, but her eyes are a challenge and it makes him ridiculously turned on, to know that she's still fighting him.  Even though she's trapped beneath him and so completely at his mercy.  Even though she clearly wants everything he's got to offer and maybe a little bit more.  His mouth pulls back into a snarling smile that makes the depths of his eyes explode with fire.
His moves his lips very close to hers, brushing them over her but not actually kissing her.  Then he mutters lowly, huskily, "Naughty girl.  You don't even know what you're saying."  Because that would hurt, really badly, and while he likes his control and his dominance, Kyouya's never been interested in lasting pain.  But the die has already been cast and Victoria won't change her mind now. 
"I do," she whispers to him, leaning in a trying to snatch a kiss.  He darts back at the last moment, so that their mouths once again brush over one another, but she doesn't look put out.  She merely pushes forward again and tells him, "Kyouya.  Fuck me with your tonfu."  And fuck it if those words don't make him absolutely delirious with unsaturated need.
He swallows, looks down at her mouth, and suddenly lunges forward.  The movement pushes her all the way back into the pillows.  He kisses her so deeply that her toes are curling, and she can't breathe, and she doesn't even want to anyway.  Her back is arching and his free hand is pulling at her bandeau and it's laying flat against her abdomen now, rather than her breasts.  And then he's dragging his mouth away from her lips and instead pushing kisses to her breasts.  Except they're not kisses, they're bites, and licks and nips and painful-pleasurable twists that make her gasp and cry out his name.  And then she's crying out again, because she feels cold metal pressing against her core and fuck, Kyouya's gonna come through with it.  He's gonna fuck her with that metal and she's not ready yet and -
"Calm the fuck down, Herbivore," Kyouya roughly mutters, suddenly crouched between her legs.  She hadn't even noticed him moving down her body like that, but now she stares at him in surprise because the look in his face is careful, composed, not lethal or animalistic like she'd been imagining.  He glowers at her and says almost idly, "It'll hurt unless you relax."  And she swallows tightly because suddenly he's twisting her panties away and his tongue is pressing flat against her clit, and it feels sogood sogood sogood -
"Kyouya!" she gasps, clutching at the sheets.  Little breathless noises leave her throat but she can't stop them, and Kyouya wouldn't want her to anyhow.  He drags his tongue over her, presses his thumb against the top of her, then pushes down and into her.  He thrusts his finger a bit, curls it, twists it, until it leaves her into a gasping, writhing mess.  She can barely work up the energy to moan anymore.
And that's when it all stops, and instead of his fingers inside her suddenly there's something cold and hard.  And Victoria stares down at him, at the way he's rocked back and is sitting calmly between her legs, grasping that tonfu and - and she's going to tell him she's changed her mind, that it'll hurt too much, that she'd rather have him, instead.  But fuck it all because she doesn't get the chance, she never does with him, and before she can say anything he's pushing the tonfu inside her and she's gasping and arching and exclaiming his name in a feverish voice.
He watches every movement she makes, every sounds she utters, every twist and turn and gasp and glower.  He watches the way his tonfu disappears and reappears, all slick and covered in her juices.  He watches the strain of his own arousal as he pushes her to her own.  Most of all, he watches the reluctant pleasure build inside her as he thrusts his weapon of choice into her hot, tight core.
It does hurt, of course, and it's hard and unsettling to have a rod of metal inside her.  But it's actually the perfect size: slim enough not to rip her apart, thick enough to add the perfect touch of pleasure.  What really gets to her, though, is the fact that Kyouya is doing this to her.  Cold, bland, ruthless Kyouya.  And it somehow fits, she thinks, as she lays there and watches him.  His eyes are everywhere, over her body and the tonfu itself and he looks ridiculously sexy, dominating her with a single piece of steel.  And it's that sight, the sight of him above her, thrusting that thing into her, that makes Victoria insane.
Kyouya watches that insanity build and pushes himself forward, resting his hand by her head and leaning down.  He slows the movements of his hand, drags the tonfu out at a mesmerizingly leisurely pace, and leans over her ear.  The next moment, he's whispering darkly, "How is it, Herbivore?"  He sinks his teeth over her earlobe and brings it into his mouth, sucking on her skin.  She moans and clutches him, arms around his waist, nails digging into his back.  And then she moans a very breathless, "Mmmmm…it's…'s reallyyy…good…ahhh!"  And Kyouya thinks he'll explode from her words alone.
He swallows back a sharp wave of desire and kisses over her jaw, his tongue licking along her skin, his teeth nipping against her.  She buries her hands into his hair and turns her face to his, and Kyouya immediately kisses her, deeply taking her lips with his.  Into the kiss, Victoria murmurs, "But…mmm, Kyouya…"  She opens her eyes and he frowns at her, and she kisses him again and whispers, "I really…really want…you now…"  He's definitely going to explode.
But it's not enough.  He needs to hear more.  He stops moving, his tonfu shoved deep inside her, and stares down at her.  Victoria squirms helplessly, wishing he'd at least keep thrusting.  It feels foreign and strange to have a hunk of metal just laying inside her like this.  But Kyouya just raises his eyebrows and asks, "Me?"  And she chuckles breathlessly because of the game he's so obviously playing.
She tilts her hips forward and lets out a luxuriously drawn out moan, which sends visible shivers over his body.  He watches her attempts at thrusting the tonfu herself, simply by shifting her hips.  He thinks it looks utterly erotic, watching her do that, but then he just chuckles deeply, darkly, and goes to drag the metal rod slowly out of her.  Victoria lightly whines and tries to follow it back, but he's too quick for her.  A moment later, he's holding the weapon up to the light, turning his narrowed eyes over it and eyeing the wetted sheen of her arousal, which glistens over the metal haplessly.
The look on Kyouya's face, when he next looks at her, is nothing short than feral.  His eyes are a wilderness of desire, which swirls and thuds and scratches over the residue of their passion.  And it makes Victoria stare, stare and tremble as he tosses the tonfu to the side and turns his full attention on her, instead.
There is a dull thud of metal hitting the floor, but it is barely noticed.  Before Victoria can follow his movements properly, Kyouya is swiftly jerking at his pants, pulling down the zipper and dragging his cock into the air.  And she's staring, surprised, because of a few different reasons.  Mainly, she's surprised because she hadn't been expecting his move.  But she's also surprised because of the simple sight of him, and the fact that he looks so mesmerizing, towering above her as he is.  His trousers are still around his hips, loosely conforming to the gentle curve of his thighs.  Other than that, he is bare.  Victoria is surprised that she likes the sight of him nearly bare, likes the fact that it turns him into a wild man who just needs her that much more.  She likes it and so she doesn't complain when he tips her chin up and roughly kisses her, heaves her legs around his waist, lurches down to press their lower bodies together.
It feels raw, having him so close, feeling his erection, knowing how badly he wants her.  It feels raw but then so does every moment with him.  He is raw.  And rough, and regal, and refined.  And she whines his name and shifts her hips against his, until he gets crazy enough to mutter darkly, "Stay still, Herbivore." 
She takes his words as a warning rather than a threat.  In some ways, they are both.  But Victoria doesn't see where one meaning ends and the other begins.  Not when she's too busy watching Kyouya push himself into her, dragging his hard cock into her core and making her take it, all of it, without preamble.
But she's already slick from his earlier antics, and he slides right in easily.  Victoria moans because his cock is so much better than a rod of metal, though in some ways those are similar, too.  And she shivers and sinks and melts into the mattress, mewling and whispering and breathing and loving.  And even though his pace is raw, rough, regal, refined, Victoria cannot make him go fast enough.
He thrusts hard, circles his hips, drags himself out and then slams back in before she can recover.  Victoria moans a soft, "Kyouya!" and he stares at her, at the sweet way she murmurs at his name.  He likes it, though he won't admit it.  He likes it and he pushes harder, faster, thrumming his hips against hers and racing toward a finish that is already making his head swim with color and fascinating emotions.  And it's ten times better than being downstairs watching people dance and eat.  It's so much better that Kyouya groans a very slight groan and throws himself into his climax.  And it's the moan that makes Victoria follow after him.  It's the moan and also a myriad of other things as well, and she grips his shoulders hard and lets him rush her to an end that leaves her utterly bereft of breath or common sense or anything else, really, save perhaps extreme bliss.
He keeps thrusting even after he's spilled himself into her.  She doesn't ever want him to stop anyway, because the zinging pleasure keeps burning her down and building her back up every other moment and she loves it.  She can feel his release leaking down the insides of her thighs and it's warm, warm and sticky, and she knows she eventually wants to clean herself up but she can't be bothered right now.  Not when Kyouya's pressing his body against hers and heaving out a sigh of relief and pleasure.  Not when he's tugging her forcefully into his arms and laying his cheek against her breast.  Not when his eyes are slipping closed and he suddenly becomes all that Hibari Kyouya is, all that she knows him to be, lazy and self indulgent and crass and quiet. 
So Victoria merely drags her fingers through his hair, over and over and over as his breathing evens out and deepens.  And she decides that perhaps taking a little nap would be good for her, too, because she has the most delightful feeling that neither of them will be leaving the hotel room tonight.  For now the bed is theirs, the night is theirs, and the party far down below them is nothing but a silent breathing mass that acts as the coalition of their union, which in its essence is raw and rough and regal and refined.  Like the pale yellow of a dawn coming up over a haze of summer green.


Thursday, June 5, 2014

A Greece Lemon -- Oh Athens, Sweetly Rising

Character: Greece

Fandom: Hetalia

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: Just thought it was about time to write something else for Greece!

In the sun, Athens is spectacular.  It glitters like a scintillating array of semi-precious stones beneath the sun's warm rays.  The sea of blue and white tumble over one another like waves trying to reach the highest point of a shore.  It is liberating to stand at the very top and look down, down, down over the rows of colorful houses as they drop into the ocean.  Liberating, and breathtaking.  But your breath has been lost due to other reasons, as well.
Heracles stands tall, proud, overlooking the familiar sight of his capitol.  For once he is wearing a suit, but he has removed the jacket and is standing with it hanging over one arm, whose hand is stuffed into his pocket.  His hair is as messy as it always is, the curls abound over his forehead and ears.  His white shirt, once crisp, is now wrinkled from the heat and the uncaring way he wears it.  But his casual, bored expression only makes his outfit stand out all the more, and he is as scintillating as the city itself.
You know he'd like nothing more than to get out of his constrictive suit, but today his boss has forced him to act as a diplomat of sorts to a visiting company.  You are here mainly as a tour guide and self-imposed assistant to Heracles.  It had been the boss's idea.  Your energetic and sociable personality is a good balance for Heracles, and you try your best to iron out any of the accidental rudeness that Heracles bestows upon the foreigners.
"Oh!  Is that the Coliseum?" one of the other suited men asks.  He points to the right, his eyes vaguely interest.  Normally his expression would most likely be excited, but the day has been long and hot.  The tour is, thankfully, in its final stages.
You smile and say, "Yes.  Should we make a trip there tomorrow?"  Beside you, Heracles lets out the tiniest sigh and you know it's probably because the idea of another day like today tires him.  You shoot him a little, amused smile that makes his green eyes shine.  None of the foreign ambassadors notice the exchange at all. 
"Yes, that sounds lovely," the suited man says, moving his eyes over the breathtaking landscape.  You nod and make a mental note of it, then you turn to the men and say, "It's getting late.  Perhaps we should return to the hotel and relax?  A car will take you wherever you'd like to go for dinner, or you can just eat in the hotel's restaurant."  You're looking forward to dinner.  You peer sideways at Heracles, who is standing off to the side not paying much attention.  But he appears to notice you looking at him, because the edges of his mouth quirks up the slightest bit.  Your heart hammers just a little and you unconsciously tug at the collar of your dress shirt.  A nice, cold shower after a day like today sounds heavenly to you.  You've got a feeling that Heracles is thinking the same thing.
After a few more minutes spent taking in the view, your group begins making its way back to the fancy car waiting on the side of the road.  There are two cars parked: one for the diplomats and one for Heracles.  As the group tour guide, it's only natural for you to sit with the foreign ambassadors and exchange passing knowledge on the city and sights.  But as you start off toward the first car, Heracles's hand slips around your elbow and drags you back.  You glance up at him in confusion, but your confusion is quick to turn into other emotions when you see the glint in his eye.  "They can survive without you for a single car ride," is all he mutters as he pulls you gently to his car.
You chuckle and nod, slipping into the car and sinking against the cool leather seats.  Heracles ambles in beside you, his long legs bent uncomfortably in the cramped space.  It's got you giggling a little.  Heracles glances at you with a sigh.  The car ride is not very romantic, but then that isn't his style.  He loops an arm over the back of your seat in a casual way, and blinks down at you for only a moment before turning his bored eyes to the window.  You know that his distance is partly due to the fact that the backseat is open to the driver's eyes.  You also know that he is simply biding his time, as you've come to expect from a seemingly lazy man such as him.
He is lazy, there is no doubting that.  But Heracles also has no small amount of integrity, and while much of it has disappeared with the ancient world, it is still there, bubbling beneath the surface.  And you know it to come out every once in a while, but in different ways.
The car ride is short.  Soon you are pulling up to the hotel and opening the door.  Heracles steps out behind you, just as the foreign ambassadors are emerging from their vehicle a few feet away.  You're quick to go to them, to tell them a tiny bit about the hotel, about the famous people that have stayed here in the past.  And while Heracles would rather you turn you enthusiasm on him, it makes him warm that you are so eager to share your knowledge of his country, of himself. 
"This woman will show you to your rooms," you say when you enter the hotel lobby.  It is comprised of sprawling architecture that looks like it should be in some sort of museum.  There are stone pillars that soar to the high ceiling, and more stimulating stonework lining other areas of the walls.  Ferns and other leafy, reaching plants are strategically placed around the lobby to allow for a more open feel.  People are loitering around, but you duck around them and lead the ambassadors to the woman who is waiting not far away.  She smiles one of those rehearsed smiles when you approach, but it looks so natural that it hardly looks rehearsed at all.
"Good evening," the woman says, mainly to the foreign ambassadors.  She's already spoken profusely with you beforehand, helping you plan out the details of the hotel stay.  You step off to the side as the woman explains some of the highlights that the hotel has to offer, including a natural and luxurious public bath on the lower level, and several four-star restaurants on the second and third floors.  As she starts to lead the men away, you feel Heracles loop his arm around your waist and playfully drag you toward the opposite direction, where a separate set of elevators await. 
"Hercules!  They'll see us!" you say, trying to slip away.  But he only chuckles very lightly, pulls you harder against him, and leans down.  His mouth hovers inches from yours, his eyes flicker over your surprised expression, and he murmurs, "So what?"  Then the elevator doors slide open and Heracles is letting you go and stepping inside, and you're standing there in the lobby feeling as though your heart has run off without the rest of you.
"Aren't you coming?" he asks lazily, raising an eyebrow at you.  You give him a nasty look that doesn't reach anywhere near you eyes and he chuckles.  You go to stand beside him.  Before the doors even shut all the way, his arm is dragging you tight to his side once more.
There are perhaps many reasons as to why your heart immediately patters off at his touch.  The reflective elevator walls, the camera above you, and just Heracles himself.  At this proximity, you can easily inhale the faint crease of cologne his boss no doubt forced him to wear.  And pressed up against his side, right into the luxurious and expensive fabric of his clothes, has got you shivering with pleasure.  You let yourself lean into him and smile.
His fingers circle your hip gently.  It is a slight movement but it still makes you giddy, eager to reach your hotel room.  You've been waiting for this moment all day long, ever since you first saw Heracles in that clinging suit.  It is so different from his normal outfit.
The elevator dings and you both step into the hallway, still tucked into each other's sides.  "What's our room number?" Heracles asks.  He doesn't seem to be in any hurry to arrive at said room, but you know better.  The countless glances, the shift of dark emotion in his gaze, and the way he's been gravitating toward you all day sets all your worries aside.  You glance up at him with a raised brow, "My room is 589.  Your room is 584."  He scoffs.
"589 it is then," is all he responds with, and your smile widens.  When you reach the room number, you dig through your bag to find your key card, slip it into the door lock, and step inside the room.  Heracles shuts the door behind you and ambles inside.
The room is a calming green color, light and airy with an earthy undertone.  It is large enough for one person, snug enough for two.  The curtains are lacy and have one of those room darkening under layers, but you doubt you'll be needing it.  Heracles could sleep anywhere, after all. The main fixture of the room is the bed, which rises up against that backdrop of green like scintillating and beautiful reminder, dripping with pillows and a pastel duvet.  On that duvet, you set your bag. 
Your one other suitcase arrived earlier.  Since you live in the country not very far away, you brought only a few things for the trip, which is only a week long.  Heracles's things are no doubt in his own room, which he will most likely not be using, if he's got anything to say on the matter.  Not that you're complaining, really. 
As you lean over to start taking things out of your bag (travel itinerary, book, work cell phone), Heracles steps up behind you and loops his arms casually around your waist.  You smile but don't comment, preferring the delicate silence that has crackled into the air.  He watches your hands over your shoulder for a moment, then murmurs, "Should I call up room service?" 
You pause, look over your shoulder, and ask, "What for?"  And he responds with a smirk and a drawled out, "Dinner.  Because neither of us are leaving this room tonight."  His words scrape the low octaves of his voice, cementing into the air like a broiling, mesmerizing message.  You know he's watching you, searching for some kind of reaction, looking for a sign that his words have made you into clay for him to mold.  But you merely raise your eyebrows, douse that reaction (which you do feel, which has turned you into clay), and turn around to face him.  His hands slide up your back lazily and he blinks at you.  You know he's probably amused by your seemingly blasé reaction, because you both know that there's actually nothing blasé about it. 
Your hands slip up his chest, splay out against his shirt.  "Oh really?" you ask, tilting you head just a little.  The corner of his mouth quirks up a bit, like he's trying to press down a smile but failing, failing utterly.  This is a game.  A game that both of you are very adept at playing.  A game that he quite enjoys.  You do, too.
Suddenly, he's pulling you closer with a force that leaves the rest of you miles behind, and his mouth is very close to yours.  You can feel his breath printing itself over your skin, his lips barely brushing against yours, his hands warm as they hold you tight against his body.  You know he isn't planning on bridging the gap between your lips.  This part of the game dictates that it's your move, and you're not about to let this moment pass up.  So you look into those lovely eyes of his and inch closer, closer, until there is no space, nothing at all between you. 
The kiss is soft, at first.  It is a reflection of the day, a shade of relief and acceptance that you are finally alone, that you don't need to hide your relationship.  Hercules's hand slides up your back and his grip turns light, like air.  His kiss takes you down into a state of being that has you leaning into him, desperate to feel more of him.  And that is when other emotions begin to intermingle with the purity of the touch.
The despair to have more of him hits you hard, breathlessly.  He notices, of course.  It's hard not to when your reaction is an incredibly erotic moan.  And Heracles feels that moan, the sound of it as it thrums through him, and the way his own body struggles to reign in the dousing shudder of desire.  He kisses you harder, drags you up against his hips, slips his hands behind your butt and squeezes you.  And the staunch feel of warm fabric, the light slide of skin, the hint of curves and muscle just out of sight, it makes you both moan, clutch, shudder with renewed passion.
This is what want is: a possessive burn that slowly squeezes, cripples a person into something that isn't a person at all, just a desperate bestial heat that controls as much as it releases.  And throughout the kisses and the grasping touches and the heady sound of breath and mouths yearning to break free, is one single, simple mantra that shifts, whispers, wraps around you like the rawness of scratchy peeling wallpaper.  Want, want, want.
He's got five o'clock subtly grazing his jaw.  You feel it scrape against your cheeks and jaw, and his dusky Greek skin looks lovely against that backdrop of dark shade.  Your fingers reach up to trace his jaw, to memorize the way that stubble drags against your fingertips.  His eyes open just a little bit and you stare at each other.  His gaze seems to tell you that this is intimacy of another kind, a deeper, more startling desire that isn't desire all, only love.
The kiss slows, breaks.  Then Heracles lets out a soft, sort of lazy and indulgent sigh.  His hands drag slowly up your body, circles around your hips, and starts to unbutton the dressy shirt you're wearing.  Your hands rest at his hips, smooth over the starchy material of his own shirt, and just watch as all his attention is focused on undressing you.  It's a nice feeling, having someone take your clothes off.  It makes you feel royal, almost, or at least very illustrious. 
When he goes to slip the undone shirt over your shoulders, Heracles meets your eyes and gives you an almost flirty, teasing half smile.  You grin in response as he steps closer, ducks his head, and inspects your bra.  After a moment of fiddling, you laugh and say, "It opens in the front."  And he shoots you a lazy glower that makes you laugh again.  His fingers slip to the front and after another moment, the bra is being pushed away and Heracles is sighing out again and reaching down to give your breasts a playful squeeze.
Then he's dragging you against him, kissing your cheek then your mouth, pushing your naked front against his dress shirt.  Your nipples harden against the light tease of fabric, but you can't stop to enjoy it because then Heracles is breaking the kiss and murmuring, "Turn around."  And your heart palpitates delightfully, because you've learned that when Heracles is in the mood to give you little orders like that, you've come to expect a very erotic atmosphere.
You slip your arm from around his neck and take a step back.  Your eyes meet for a moment before your turning around, flashing him a little, teasing grin and facing the wall.  You feel Heracles's hands gently rub over your sides, then he fingers the zipper of your pencil skirt and drags it down over your butt.  You wiggle your hips a little to help shift the skirt down your legs.  When it hits the floor, you peer back at him to find his eyes smiling. 
He reaches on hand up to his dress shirt and is about to undo the buttons when you spin around and blurt out, "Don't take that off!"  The confused silence that immediately follows makes you blush and look away from his face.  You hurry to explain, "…I never see you wear a suit.  You…you look…ah…"  And you're glad you aren't looking at his face, because you know for sure that his eyes are glinting deliciously right about now.
Heracles's eyes are flashing.  He smirks that tiny smirk, the one you can barely see but somehow makes him look so dangerous, and steps forward.  You clear your throat and look at the ground, but that doesn't really help you because then his lower half is in view, and dress pants really don't hide erections very well.  You laugh nervously and back up, back up, until Heracles has got you pressed up against the wall, his hands on either side of you, his hips veering dangerously close to yours.  Then he murmurs roughly, lowly, "It makes me look what?"  And it's really a shame that his normal side is lazy and unconcerned, because when he gets like this, Heracles is a powerhouse.
At this proximity, you really can't not look at his face.  Your eyes flicker over his and you swallow hard.  One of his hands slips down your body to rest on your waist.  As his fingers trace the hem of your stockings, you finally give in and whisper breathlessly, "Your suit.  It makes you so sexy."  Your mouth is aching to touch his skin so you don't bother controlling it.  A moment later, you're leaning in and kissing a delicate trail down his neck, and he shivers into you.  Your tongue burns over a bit of that skin, and against it you murmur, "I want you to keep it on."  His next shiver, which is more powerful than the last, is doubtlessly a result of your words.
After a moment spent trying to get the little shards of his control back, Hercules chuckles.  The sound is deep, dark, like a rumble reverberating through a mountain, and it is all wrapped up with strong desire.  You look up at him just as he begins to pull away, and his next words send a thrill of stark want through you.
"I've got my own fantasies, you know," he says huskily, lazily dragging his hand over your skin.  You clench your fist into his dress shirt and breathlessly ask, "Tell me about them?"  Because good Lord, you've never wanted to know anything more in your life.
Rather than immediately answering you, Heracles instead leans forward to press his mouth to yours.  You whimper a little, wishing he'd kiss you faster.  But even in this cloud of passion his movements are casual, like he's thinking very hard about something else.  You find that you don't like that, so you try to take the kiss deeper.  He chuckles and lets you, pushing you gently against the cold wall and then looping his fingers down your body.  The way he caresses you makes you moan again, stronger this time, because it feels so nice to be touched by him.  But it is nothing compared to the next touches.
The thin layer of stockings and panties give little protection against him.  When his fingers gently tuck against you, rubbing heat and friction against your aching core, you mutter his name in a semi-delirious, surprised way and clutch him harder.  The kiss momentarily drops into nothingness.  You stare at each other for a moment, a moment that is comprised entirely of his fingers and the dull but delightful thrills of pleasure that drag over your body.
"Stockings," he finally says, seemingly out of the blue.  It takes you a moment to understand his single word, but then you are raising your eyebrows and giving him a quirky grin.  He returns it with one of his barely-there smiles.
"Really?" you drawl.  You're now almost fully distracted from the rest of his movements.  You want to hear more, you're eager for it, excited.  After a few seconds you wonder cheekily, "And heels, too?"  And Heracles lets out an amused but agreeing grunt that makes you shiver.  You laugh.
"What is it?" he asks, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck.  You tunnel your fingers into his soft hair and let your head fall back.  Then you press yourself into his body, immensely enjoying the feeling of being almost fully bare beside his fully clothed form.  You sigh in pleasure and tell him, "I'm just surprised.  I wasn't expecting you to have those kinds of fantasies."  His kisses drop to the tops of your breasts.  Against them, he murmurs, "What fantasies did you think I'd have?"
You hum for a moment, watching him.  You'd like to answer him, but now he's on his knees in front of you and it's hard to find the breath.  His mouth drags over the hem of your stockings, then he moves to the tops of your thighs.  His tongue scorches right through the netty mesh of fabric and leaves you hanging between the bars of wordy desire and something else.
"Mmm…something with cats…" you'd like to articulate on that more but really, you're lucky you even have the sense to keep standing.  You moan when his tongue gets closer to your core, and breathlessly mutter, "…Little cat ears…short skirt…something like that…"  And you don't have to look at him to know that he is amused by your words.
His green eyes cut the air between you.  The look on his face makes you smile, but you can't laugh.  Not when he's kneeling in front of you like this.  Definitely not when he's got that glint in his eye, the one that tells you just how anxious he is to actually take you, but is ready to be very patient in that particular quest.
He rocks back on his heels with a curious look on his face, like the idea of that sort of fantasy has never crossed his mind.  "I'm a little classier than that, actually," he tells you with a raised eyebrow.  You smirk and shrug, then hook your leg over his shoulder.  His eyes flash dangerously.  Then he asks, darkly, "Are these your only pair of stockings?"  And the look in his eyes makes it clear why he would need to ask you that.
All you can think of is, 'fuck, why didn't I bring more stockings?'.  Because this morning you were in a hurry and you ripped your other pair and had to throw them out.  But you aren't going to tell Hercules that.  There is no way you're going to deviate from this particular path.  So instead you just say breezily, "Of course not.  Why?"  The last question is more a tease than an actual question, because you're fully aware of why he wants to know.  Heracles smirks and casually, lazily answers your question with action.  His hands drift to your inner thighs and he gently pinches the netty fabric off your skin.  The next moment, he's ripping it apart, and the breakage of the strands spill down your legs like an avalanche of thread.
He leans in to press his tongue over one particularly large rip, which drags up your leg and inner thigh.  The hot, wet feel of his mouth so close to your core has you shuddering, shaking into the wall and desperately hoping you don't fall to the ground.  But then he is hooking his fingers into the tear and making it larger, jerking it open across your panties.  You watch with dark, heady eyes as he slowly stands up, crosses his arms, and looks over his work.  What he sees, he must like, because his eyes are that airy green, the kind that looks like it is smiling.  The smile, this time, is of a mischievous nature.
"How do I look?" you ask with a smirk.  There is the lightest blush on his cheeks that gives you a perfectly coherent answer, but you'd like for him to say it aloud.  He rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat, then mutters, "…Good.  You look…good."  And of course you laugh, of course, because you don't imagine that an adjective like that describes the situation very well.  He chuckles, too, because he's well aware.
You'd normally say something about that.  Maybe something light and flirty, just to tease him and make him uncomfortable.  But this evening you have other things on your mind, and these things have nothing to do with discomfort.  Quite the opposite, in fact.
"Turn around," he tells you softly, guiding your hips.  You let him turn you, feeling breathless just because his hands are splayed against your skin.  His mere touch is enough to make you lightheaded, but it gets worse.  It always does.  The next moment, he's pressing his hips against your butt and you can feel the hard iron of his erection.  Then Heracles murmurs quietly, "Put your hands on the wall, αγάπη μου [1].  Do you like this?"  His voice is a hushed breath filled with the barest hint of hesitance, because it is the first time he has taken you in such a brash, raw manner.
But God, you like it.  And you like the way his native tongue shudders out over your skin.  "I like it," you tell him, pushing your rear against him.  You hear him let out a pleased sort of moan that flutters through the air like chemical desire.  He circles his hips against yours for a moment, but then seems to grow tired of the contact and goes to unzip his trousers.  You tilt your head back and watch.  Then you moan because when he presses his hips against you the next time, it feels so much better, so much more realistic without fabric.
His hands flutter over your hips lightly, touching you gently, dragging his fingers over you hip bones and the tops of your thighs.  He doesn't touch you where you most want him to, though, and it makes you impatient.  Impatient enough to wriggle your hips backwards, into the hardness of his erection.  Heracles lets out a strangled, muffled, surprised sort of moan that sounds like he's biting his lip, and you smirk.  He seems to get the point.
He grunts and nudges your knees apart, slipping his leg between your thighs.  The very, very slight friction makes your back arch just a little in anticipation, a sight that Hercules very much enjoys.  His fingers trace over your spine languidly, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly over every bone, which are on high display due to your position.  He leans down and drags his tongue over your shoulder blade, his hand reaching around your front to grasp your breast.  His erection presses tight against you, his hips shaking, bucking slightly against your rear.  A light, grunting moan slips from his lips.
It's highly erotic, this position, not being able to see his face.  The way he touches you, too, makes you ache like nothing else.  His lazy caresses, the way he almost worships your body and the parts of you that you usually don't give a second thought to, it all makes you delirious.  So delirious that you can't help but moan out an impatient, extremely aroused, "Heracles…!"  And the desperate inflection of your voice has got him chuckling in strained, passionate amusement.
"Spread your legs," he gruffly whispers by your ear.  His dress shirt is warmly pressed to your back and you know he probably wants it off.  But it feels ridiculously arousing to be this turned on and to know that he's still wearing all his clothes.  So arousing that you press your forearms into the wall and listen to him, shifting your legs farther apart and very nearly crying out when his hand snakes around your thigh to touch you.
He slowly, generously traces one finger over your clit, brushing the wetness up, thumbing over the nub at the top.  The way your immediately shudder out, shaking into him, makes Heracles groan softly in appreciation.  He turns his head to press a hot kiss against your neck, dragging his tongue over the jugular vein, playfully biting the edge of your jaw.  And all the while that single finger dominates you in the most surreal, simple way possible.
"Do you want to come like this?" he finds himself asking, his voice crinkled with lust, his words both dark and amused.  He is usually not one for talking during intimacy.  He likes saving his energy for more physically satisfying things.  But there is something different about the moment tonight.  Perhaps it is the way you are pressed up against the wall and him, stockings ripped in the most pleasing way, panting and moaning and all but begging to have him.  Perhaps it is simply the fact that he knows how much you like to talk during the act, to tell him what you feel, to whisper out all the deliciously erotic things you'd like to do later.  Whatever the reason, he certainly gets what he wants: you, breathlessly whimpering, shaking your head, your voice breaking over a single word, "N-no…"
He very nearly lets his control shatter when he hears that tiny little word, but somehow he perseveres.  He chuckles shakily, amused only at the way he is utterly overcome by the desire to have you.  He is hard, harder than he's ever been, maybe.  And he'd like nothing more than to give you what you want, what you need, but he's not quite don’t playing the game yet.
"No?" he drawls, seemingly lazy.  But you can hear the way his words scrape and crash against his voice like an ocean storm spilling over.  His finger drags up over your clit again, but this time he doesn't bring it back down.  Instead, he jerks that finger over the top of your clit, quickly, maddeningly sudden, and watches you gasp and buck your hips and moan with the very edge of release…and then he stops, before you can fall into that release, and you aren't sure if you're happy about that or not.
"God, Hercules…" you huskily moan, swallowing back a heady wave of desire.  You have to admit that he's good, good at teasing you, good at dragging out the delightful shards of anticipation, which provide half the fun.  But you also have to admit that he's making you very impatient. 
He nods against your neck, muttering, "Okay, okay…"  He shifts a little and you know he's preparing himself, getting ready to take you.  Moments later he's whispering, "Ready?"  And you can feel the engorged head of him pressing up against your core.  One of his hands rubs heat into your thigh, pulling it farther apart, spreading you for him.  You swallow and nod silently, and he grunts and begins inching himself into you.
It feels different like this.  Deeper, almost, like he's able to innately feel more of you in this position.  Heracles sighs loudly, his breath burning over the skin of your neck and shoulder, and he thrusts forward with one powerful movement.  The moment he's completely inside you, you both shift forward: you into the wall, Heracles into you.  His body is draped along the length of yours and even though you can't see him, it's enough to feel him.  Every exquisite inch of him.
That hand of his, which is still laying atop your upper thigh, now squeezes your flesh and pulls your leg to the right, almost into the air.  He likes the feel of those stockings against your flesh, likes the way they're eternally conformed to skin, the rips and the tears, the barrage of broken thread.  His free hand moves to the wall beside yours, locking his body into place.  As a result, his next thrust utterly shakes you down as he goes deeper.
"A-ah, th-that's good, Hera-cles - !" you toss your head back, push your hips back, but it's near impossible to meet his thrusts like this.  He is in control.  He is wearing a suit and he is looking powerful and he is dominating you like he's never done before.  And it makes you want to come.  So, so badly.
"Mmm…" he groans, sort of as an answer but mostly just because.  His hips move firmly, rocking against yours and pushing you forward with each movement.  Then you roll back and the circle begins again, and again, until you've completely lost yourself in the rocking and the sound of skin meeting skin and the heavy pants that lurch over your ear and hair and set your flesh afire.
He is truly talented in these types of things, and though you've realized that long ago it still surprises you.  The way he makes love is like way an art collector shops for a new painting.  Slow, with a progressive, building admiration, dedicated, determined.  And when he knows what he wants he goes for it, sort of like he's doing now.
His thrusts are not just thrusts, not anymore.  They started out as simple pushes: push in, pause, pull out, repeat.  Now they are different, changed from the desire that fuels your bodies, the need to secure release.  He rolls into you, thrusts, then circles his hips just a little.  But it is enough to make your back arch, your toes curl, your breath come out in jagged shards.
Heracles shifts behind you, then you hear his voice (all gravel and earthy passion) whisper, "Spread your legs a little more, αγάπη μου."  A moment goes by in which you try to obey, try to do as he says even in this dense fog of erotica.  Then he groans and leans in, pressing his chest to your back, murmuring reverently, "Better…mmm…it's better…"  You have to agree.
In fact, it's so much better that it goes right to your head, makes you moan, Heracles's name a drizzled, broken gasp on your tongue.  He squeezes your thigh once more before dipping his hand between your legs, and the way he touches you next makes your orgasm utterly tear through your without warning.  His fingers are fierce but gentle, and you cry out because they feel so good, so good ducking and shifting and thumbing over your clit like that.  Your hips buck backwards and Hercules moans, feels you clench tight around his member as the sheerness, the rawness of total pleasure rips the world off its axis and makes stars fall into your eyes.
His fingers continue to circle your clit, but he pulls away before you can become overly sensitive.  His release has created a wicked trail that you can feel against your inner thighs, but you don't really care and neither does he.  His hand reaches up to engulf your stomach, and the touch is strangely intimate in a different way.  All at once you feel comfortable, more comfortable than you've felt all week.  And even though he's buried inside you, even though you're body sweaty and messy, you wouldn't trade this moment for anything in the world.
"Mmm," you whimper when Heracles slides out of you.  Your hands are still clenched into fists against the wall, and Heracles chuckles in fond, lighthearted desire to see you there.  Panting, stockings torn, his release dripping down the mesh of netting and glistening in the dim light.  He watches you for a while.  When you finally turn around, pressing your back against the wall because you don’t trust yourself to stand, Hercules is pulling off his dress shirt.
His olive skin is stark against the crisp white fabric, and makes him into a golden demigod.  For such a lazy man he's in incredibly good shape, and you stare at him, watching his every movement as his clothes hit the floor.  He seems to enjoy doing this for you.  Undressing, that is.  He does it slowly, meeting your eyes with his own playful green gaze.  When he finally steps out of his pants, you give him a smile that's more mischievous than not. 
He returns it and steps forward, his hands reaching for your hips.  You watch him tug on your stockings, and the panties that are still underneath them.  After a moment, he crouches down in front of you and slowly peels the fabric away.
"That's better," he murmurs, looking up at you.  His eyes take in every inch of your now naked form and you hum, enjoying his gaze and the way it makes you into a beautiful goddess.  "What should we do now?" he wonders as he stands up.  His smile is a bit dark, his eyes full of hints, and you smirk because you've still got the entire evening ahead of you.  But first…
"Room service," you tell him, pushing him toward the phone.  He raises an eyebrow, no doubt in confusion, and asks, "Why?"  He must have forgotten his threat earlier, about dinner, but you certainly haven't.  You laugh a little and tell him cheekily, "Heracles, I'd love to spend the entire night doing what we just did…but do you know how starving I am right now?"  You haven't eaten since breakfast, and you'd been in too much of a hurry to have lunch because you had to meet with the diplomats. 
Heracles smirks and saunters to the phone, saying, "Sure, sure.  I guess you need to get your energy back after that."  You laugh because of the proud, almost haughty way he says it, like he's the one who wore you out.  And as he picks up the phone and starts speaking in smooth Greek, he gives you a look that tells you that you'll be needing your energy tonight, at least if he's got anything to say on the matter. 

Extended Ending

The bed feels heavenly beneath you and you're happy.  Dinner is lain out around you, your plate nestled atop the sheets.  Heracles sighs out beside you and reaches for the plate, putting it on the bedside table along with his, which is empty.  He hands you your wine glass and you give him a lazy smile and snuggle close into his chest.  Your naked bodies form a tangled, lovely mess of skin and silk and is feels very satisfying.  He reaches for his own wine and gently taps your glasses together before drinking.
"Mmm," you sigh, leaning back against him.  "That was good," you softly say, speaking mostly about the dinner.  Mostly.  Beside you Heracles hums in agreement, pauses, and puts his glass down.  He slowly turns back to you and you watch with darkened eyes as he raises an eyebrow and drawls, "It'll get better." 
"Oh, will it?" you wonder, tilting your head.  You go to take another sip of wine, but Heracles reaches your lips faster.  His kiss makes you feel very much alive.  So much so that a moment later, you're blindly putting your glass on the table to your left and curling your free hands into his hair.  He kisses you harder, pushing your body into pillows and sheets.  You moan.
Heracles chuckles lightly, whispering a soft, "Let me show you, εραστής [2]."
And you proceed to let him do just that.


[1] αγάπη μου my love

[2] εραστής lover