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.

~~~ 

Translations:
[1] αγάπη μου my love

[2] εραστής lover


13 comments:

  1. Suits are hella rad, I approve.
    Your writing is equally rad.

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  2. That was amazing ^////^
    but I'm pretty sure his name is Heracles, not Hercules...
    But anyway, keep up the good work. And maybe could you do an America Baby Daddy story? ^_^

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    1. You know what, I'm a total dork. Thanks for correcting me! x3 I'll keep the baby daddy idea in mind for the summer~

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  3. You did an amazing job :-). I adore Greece and it makes me sad that there's not that many reader insert stories with him.

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  4. I would absolutely love it if you made more Greece lemons! Japan and China too! I love your work btw!

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  5. Can you please do me a favor?
    Make more Greece lemons!!!!!~ You are an amazing writer ^^ pizza more of this set Greek! ;3 ♡

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    1. I actually have a sequel of sorts in the making for this lemon. Not sure how long it'll take me but it should be out soonish!

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  6. This sentense doesnt make much sence "Let me show you, εραστής" greek is my native language and i dont really get what you try to say here xD but i got to say when i read the "αγάπη μου" i was laughing and blushing as hell. For some reason i can't imagine a guy saying that phrase in bed but it fit's well it makes it really sweet . Normally this phrase is used in ummm either a more romanting type of situation or in a fight like " come on now αγάπη μου don't act like a bitch " (yep we are weird iiii know xD)

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    1. I know, I was sort of going out on a limb with those Greek words, haha. Let me know if you have any suggestions for alternate phrases! Glad you liked the rest of it :3

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  7. Please can you write more for Greece?

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    1. I'll definitely write more for him soon! I sort of see him as being a Christian Grey type for some reason. When he's not being lazy, he's a total bad ass/perv...lol

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  8. Thank you so much!!!♥He is my favourite♥

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