Wednesday, September 30, 2015

A Loki Lemon -- Infinity Is Here

Character: Loki

Fandom: The Avengers

OC: Reader-Insert

Inspiration: It gets mushy at the end.  Dunno.  Was listening to Cloud Atlas Sextet when I wrote it, so that's probably why.  Highly recommend watching Cloud Atlas, it was so freaking beautiful.  Oh, and if you've emailed me within the last week or two, I'll be answering emails soon I promise whkefkjndf I've been a lazy cunt lately

It isn't as if you really planned for it to happen.  The dress had maybe been a little provocative, but no more than usual.  And besides, it's the normal style in Asgard.  Draping skirts, backless gowns, sheer fabric.  You looks the same as any other high class female attending a high class dinner.  The only difference is in the looks you enjoys sending his way.
Loki enjoys those looks, too, because he can decipher them correctly.  He knows the narrowed eyes and the daunting smirk hint at specific, aching desires.  He knows what the twinkling, mischievous eyes mean.  He also knows that, when you flirt with the men around you, it is for his benefit.  It's also for yours.  You happen to enjoy his jealousy, especially when he punishes you in a more carnal manner.
"You have a talent for getting under my skin, wench," he hisses in your ear.  You are conveniently located under a pillar, half out of sight.  Before you, people are dancing rather drunkenly.  The warriors of Asgard are loudly exchanging stories a few tables over.  The music drifts in and out of existence, stifled here and there by bouts of roaring laughter and the sound of plates and glasses being banged onto wooden surfaces.  It is the perfect cover for swapping words, and maybe other things too.
You allow a brief, almost uninterested smile to cross your face.  Loki doesn't look at you directly, but he sees it pass from the corner of his eye and he narrows his gaze.  He looms at your side, a head taller than you and quite imposing in his dark green robes.  You think he looks imposing wearing nothing at all, but you tuck those thoughts away for later on.  It's no fun getting right to the point.  Not when conversation with him is so scintillatingly lovely.
You hum and send him an amused, sideways look, as if silently telling him that it's your job to get under his skin.  And his sheets.  And his robes.  If he gets the message (he undoubtedly does), he doesn't respond to it.  It's no fun, after all, no fun at all unless he allows you to drag things out.  Then he'll make you pay.  For the torture of tonight and for a great many other things, too, that aren't important unless he's looking for a reason to undress you.
A small little laugh trickles into the air and you drawl, "I can't imagine what you mean, my Lord.  I have followed all the social conditions that a maiden of my standing ought to adhere to."  And you have, for a lady of Asgard.  Which means you have used all the liberties you've been afforded, including flirting, dancing, and speaking profusely with other men, mainly Thor.  You both know that this was done on purpose.  It is not that you are breaking any social rules: many Asgardian women are allowed to do the same at large gatherings, so long as they keep their priorities straight by the end of the night.  But if Loki has anything to say about said priorities, he will not just set them straight - he'll completely bend them to his own will.
His lip curls in disinterest at your words, particularly at your usage of a more formal title for him.  You've called him things much less dignified in the past and he knows that this, too, is a part of your little game.  You don't care that he sees right through you. 
"Your gown is particularly … striking this evening.  And you have danced nearly every dance with those disreputable, mindless warriors."  His tone is so uninterested that you almost see his words as a simple statement meant to be idly skimmed over.  But you know him well enough by now to notice when his jealousy appears.  You smile.
"Those mindless warriors happen to be very fun to dance with," you reply with a shrug, and it's true.  Dancing with them is fun, especially when they aren't terribly drunk.  Dancing is also an integral part of these gatherings, and everyone knows how to do it.  Warriors are not exempt from it.
He clearly doesn't appreciate you standing up for his brother's friends, even if it is done to get on his nerves.  He sends you a glower that makes your skin feel achingly cold, and suddenly you want his hands all over you, fisting into your dress and making you pay.  Desire flashes through your eyes.  Loki watches it kindle there, and then promptly scoffs and mutters, "You're playing a very dangerous game, my Lady."  A game that he happens to be highly adept at.
You smirk and turn away from him, leaning on the pillar for a moment before saying lowly, just low enough for his ears only, "I'm only waiting for you, Loki.  Just tell me when."  Tell me when to disappear, to meet you somewhere else, to let you dole out that lovely punishment that you are so clearly festering.  The rest of your words hang in the air between them, as precarious as the low cut of your backless gown.
He doesn't make any notion that he'd heard you, but then again you don't expect him to.  Loki is painstakingly patient, almost too much so.  He will make you suffer in silence before he allows you  any form of reprieve.  Which is why he just stands there in his tall and imposing way, arms crossed and looking particularly stubborn.  You pretend not to notice and just watches the dancing, but after a solid minute of this, you decide that your lover could use a little push.
Your eyes land on one of the warriors, who is standing by the main table across the room.  Before you even think your words through, they are bolting from your mouth like a deer from a hunter.  But it is not fear that drives you, only shredded anticipation and the eager desire to be caught. 
"If we're finished here, I think I'll see if Frogar would like to dance," you say, and Loki stiffens.  His reaction doesn't extend past that slight movement, but you can tell that he'd very much like to show something more, to react to you in a more dominant, possessive way.  Frogar is one of Thor's friends and is particularly mindless, but he knows how to dance at least.  You are quite aware that Loki absolutely loathes him.  You are also quite aware that you're in the midst of digging yourself a very deep hole, for which you will undoubtedly have a difficult time getting out of.  But you like to push his buttons and see how far you can make him bend in public, because you know that in private, you'll be the one doing the bending and you want to make the most of it.
You take one step away from him and Loki’s hand snatches out and curls tightly around your upper arm.  He drags you forcefully back into the shadows of the pillar and shoves you up against the stone.  His movements and expressions are angry, but there is a flicker of something else in his eyes too.  Amusement.  He likes this silly jealousy game.  Well, he likes this part of it at least.
His mouth crushes over yours very quickly and very dominantly.  You immediately respond, clutching your hands in his robes and tilting your body into his.  But he doesn't let you enjoy his touch any longer than you deserve, and after a too-short moment, he pulls away and presses you angrily into the hardened pillar.  You aren't nearly as out of the way as you'd like to be, after all, and Loki would hate to draw unwanted attention to you.  He's got more interesting plans for the night and they've got nothing to do with listening to his father scold him on the social constraints that his title demands.
You pant and shiver into the stone.  When it all comes down to it, you're not nearly as mischievous or sure of yourself in the face of this powerful passion.  You close your eyes and try to smirk, but it comes out as more of a gratified smile and doesn't even have a shred of the impish light you'd intended for it to have.  Loki's smirk, on the other hand, is evil incarnate.
"I do believe, my Lady, that you're looking rather ill," Loki drawls, dragging out the word 'lady' as if he is doubtful that you really deserve the title.  He'd prefer calling you 'vixen', or 'hellcat'.  It suits you better.  "Shall I escort you back to your room?" he inquires with a heady smirk.  His words are polite but his tone is edged with dirt and gravelly desire and aroused, lustful promises.  You think it sounds lovely.  Against your better judgment, you accept.
It isn't that you don't want to be alone with him.  It is simply that you know he will torture you a little bit before he lets you feel pleasure, and while you're looking forward to it, you also just wants to get right into it tonight.  Hours spent staring at his dashing figure, the intricate robes, the mischievous lingering gaze has made you endlessly aroused.  You don't want to admit it, but you've been aching something awful for at least half of the night, when in your boredom you'd begun to daydream about certain acts better left for darkened corners.
But you find yourself surprised when, minutes later in the darkened hallway, Loki presses you hard into the wall and you feel him.  Perhaps he has been suffering from similar desires throughout the night, because the hard bulge between his legs leaves you gasping.  His robes are good at concealing what feels like a very uncomfortable erection.  You're not surprised that you hadn't noticed: Loki would never allow himself the shame of being found out at the middle of a dinner.  After the dinner, however, is another story entirely.
You aren't very far from the great hall, but Loki has pressed you into a small little alcove that offers a decent amount of protection.  You're just about to wonder if he'll drag you back to his rooms, but your thoughts soon abandon you.  He hungrily kisses you, devouring your mouth with his and rubbing his body luxuriously against yours.  The fabric of your elegant robes hold you back, but it still feels rather delicious.  Especially when his hands careen down your bare back and dive into your gown to clutch at your rear.
You are wearing nothing beneath the gown.  If this surprises Loki, he doesn't show it.  He just 'tsk's and mutters darkly, "Naughty girl."  He doesn't have time to say anything else, because you won't let him.  You want his kisses, want the bruising force of them against your lips, want your head spinning and your body numb with pleasure.  He growls and forces you back into the cold stone wall, his hands roughly clenching and unclenching your ass, spreading you and massaging over your curves.  Then, before you have time to anticipate his next move, Loki is rubbing two fingers along the cleft of your bottom and down around your clit.  He jerks them over your wetness so quickly that you can only gasp and moan out a complaint.  You wish he'd go slower, but then again this is supposed to be your punishment, so you shouldn't be surprised.
You muffle your annoying reaction with a breathless laugh, “Are you so bold that you would take me in this dreary hallway?  I believe I deserve some manner of respect, at least.”  Your nails digs into his shoulders tightly when he drags those fingers over you again, but this time there is a certain calculation to his movements that make them less careless and more thoughtful.  He is testing you.  Deciding if you truly are worthy to lie with him in his bed.  So you hold tightly to your moans, bundle them up against your throat before they can spill into existence, and waits for the verdict.
It comes soon after, though perhaps not in the way you expect.  Loki drags out a quiet, “Hmm…” and his hands smooth up your ass to pull you roughly against him.  The next moment, the world around them fades away and is replaced by Loki’s magic as he transports them to the one place you eagerly await.  You push down a smile.  It had been relatively simple to convince him, which means that he either wants you very badly or just wants to continue teasing you in a more private setting.  Maybe both.
“Is this better, my Lady?” he murmurs, his voice low and scraping over the grave tones of his lust.  His words are almost a purr, and they pucker over your skin like a shivering array of individual promises.  You try very hard to remain still and not convulse into the quivering mess he is making you into, but you doubt your efforts are very effective.  He’s smirking something awful when you lean back to look up at him.  You smile, too, at your own transparency, and chuckle, “It’s much better, prince.”  And it is.
His rooms are a curious mix of royalty and commonality, pushed into existence with emerald additions.  The floor length, luxurious satin curtains were half open, allowing for a sprinkle of moonlight to light up the mahogany floors.  The moonlight creates a subtle path that traverses, drips, skids all the way to his bed: a massive emerald mass that all but shrieks ‘luxurious comfort’. 
“Perhaps a little light would be welcome,” Loki murmurs, flicking his hand into the air with a smooth swish.  Immediately, the room brightens as if a shard of the sun has been captured and exhibited there.  The brilliancy quickly dims down to a duller glow.  You peer up at your mischievous lover and raise your eyebrows.  He merely smirks and allows is gaze to drift over you, appeased with the lighting because now he can see everything, or at least everything he has done to you.  But the gown you wear still clings to your figure, and he steps forward to deal with the annoying fabric that barricades his view of you.
You let him touch you, let him slowly drag the skirt of your dress up your legs, bundle it at your hips, then flourish it up and away.  It lands as a cloud might land, grazing the floor with a brilliant sashay of wispy details before settling.
You aren’t wearing anything at all beneath the gown, and so you stand there naked in the center of his room in only a pair of delicate creamy heels.  His gaze in a calculating mass of well hidden affection as he slowly takes you in.  After a long moment of his staring, you tilt your head and give him a tiny little smile that somehow turns your eyes to mischievous diamonds awaiting judgment.  Said judgment comes in the form of Loki gesturing fluidly to the bed and saying very calmly, “Sit down.”
You sit, cross your legs, stare.  He stares back as he slowly begins to remove his robes.  The outer one falls to the floor with a heavy swish.  The inner follows soon after, and then he too is bare and stepping forward, and you’re meeting him on the edge of the mattress and pulling him into an immediate kiss that is a perfect blend of your fire and his serenity.  He pushes you down with a chuckle and promptly follows, his lips ducking back to yours quickly as he loops his arms over your head.
Lying beneath him as his mouth utterly ravishes yours is like transcending the limits of mathematical restrictions and flying into infinity.  His lips are gateways into an entirely new universe.  His kisses make you feel as though you are more than simply living, but rising and sinking like a rowboat in a heavy storm, always fluctuating between two halves of a greater whole.  He is the other half, his body the vehicle of this union that mobilizes the stark workings of your heart.  And you would drown in that storm just as long as he was the boat which carried you to the bottom of the sea.
“Impatient, are we?” Loki says against your very eager lips.  His mouth curves into an amused smile as his long fingers reach for your wrists.  He pulls your roaming hands away from his chest and instead thrusts them above your head.  His smile turns into something darker, more of a smirk that loosely catches the transience of wicked abandon.  It suits him so well and looks so good on his handsome angular face that your core aches with a fierce melodramatic insistence impossible to ignore.
“Always,” you whisper, kissing him back with lustful intent.  Yet it is not only lust that drives you.  It is also the familiarity between two souls clashing yet again; the knowledge behind his passion and yours.  It is something, you think, that leads to greatness.  To love, perhaps.  You don’t know, you can’t consider such things now.  All you know is the way Loki kisses you feels infinite, breathless, beautiful.
He smirks and kisses you again.  It is a languid lazy kiss.  A kiss that makes your toes curl.  A kiss that has you arching and sighing and trying to keep up with him and the powerful emotions that run their course beneath your skin.
“Mmm…Loki…” you whisper, almost whine, and he kisses you deeper as if trying to swallow each and every word, each breath, the very essence of who you are. 
His hips roll down against yours, and with an impatient growl, he pulls away to grab your thighs.  A moment later he’s heaving them apart, making room for himself against the warmth of your body.  He nestles there, pressed against the entirety of you, and leans down to kiss you again.  This time the kiss is accompanied with the drag of his hips as they shimmer against yours.
Another whine leaves your throat.  You’re eyes flutter.  Your fingers curl into him, clawing at his back.  You wrap your legs around his waist and pull yourself closer to him, grinding your wet core against his hard length.  His tongue sneaks over yours, and in a fit of playfulness you seal your mouth shut.  The narrowed look he sends you makes you shiver in excitement.
“Naughty,” he tells you, before promptly biting your bottom lip with no small amount of grace.  You jolt against him and a note of distress leaves you, but he swallows that too, and every shift of his tongue takes you deeper deeper deeper.
Fingers tangle into his hair.  The air subtly changes between you from rough and playful to astoundingly beautiful – in ways you cannot explain and can’t even fully understand.  All you know is that being with him unlocks you.  Transforms you.  And suddenly you are both susceptible to every flaw and timelessly transparent to every strength.  You do not know if that is what love is; you doubt you’ll ever know.
He sighs out into the kiss and you breathe him in, lips molded together but not moving.  Everything slows.  He lifts his head millimeters away.  His green eyes look like dark emeralds in the dim light.  You trail a hand over his cheek, fingertips brushing over his sharp cheekbone and then down to his lips.  He watches you, the corner of his mouth tilted up into a devilish smirk, and murmurs, “Are you quite finished admiring me?”
You smirk back, circle your hips just a little, and watch an almost pained expression flutter over his face.  “I’ll never be finished admiring you,” you tell him quietly as he grapples with the intense desire you instill within him.  His eyes slice you into millions of pieces and you ghost over every one of them just to get to him.
He hums, a low thrum of dark noise that makes your entire body light up.  “Good,” he growls, kissing you firmly before pulling back and sitting on his knees.  “Now let me admire you.  Sit up and come here.”  He shifts back and you slowly sit up.  You don’t expect him to settle himself at the top of the large bed, but the sight of him idly sitting there in all his glory makes your mouth water.
“Oh?” you wonder, crawling toward him.  “My prince must be getting lazy.”  You smirk.  He just raises a dangerous brow and pats the top of his thighs.
“Get over here, wench,” he snarls, but there is no bite behind his tone.  You huff but obey, sliding over his body until you’re sitting in his lap.  His hard shaft presses between you and you gently slide over it, shivering when you spread your outer sex over him.
He makes an indulgent purring sound and grips your thighs tightly, heaving you closer with a vengeance that makes you breathe out eagerly. 
“Now who’s impatient?” you ask lightly, even though ever part of you is screaming in the agony of this close-not-close-enough vexation.
He slaps your rear with a smirk and you have to bite your lip to hold in your moan.  God you love it when he gets like this.  It’s sexy as hell.
“Tsk,” he murmurs, shifting his long fingers up your back.  “Don’t push your luck, my lady.”  The words are, as always, playfully wicked and so very tempting.
No, you won’t push your luck.  You haven’t got much of it left anyhow.  For now all you want to do is fuck him until every bit of your common sense vanishes.  And so before Loki can say anything else, you take his cock between eager fingers and pump him slowly through them once, twice, several more times – and then you line him up to your core. 
His expression is tight as he watches this, eyes dangerous and narrowed.  When you start to slide down on him, he closes his eyes briefly before opening them to look at you, watching you take him.  You get halfway before you start lifting your hips again, trying to ease him inside you – but Loki is impatient.  He digs his fingers into your hips and slams you down on his shaft, quickly and efficiently making you take every single inch of him.  You gasp, partly in pain but mostly with the delirious passion that comes from how much you love his manhandling of you.  You’re probably a little masochistic, but at least you have the decency to pretend like you aren’t…not that it does any good.
“Loki!” you exclaim, hoping your voice doesn’t sound a breathless as you think it does.  “You can’t just - what if I wasn’t ready – “
He growls and jerks his hips just a little, as much as he is allowed in his current position.  He’s completely hilted inside you.  His pelvis is pressed against yours.  “I know you love it,” he murmurs silkily, nipping at your throat with those quick lips of his.  “Stop pretending that you don’t.  Now fuck me already.”
Your head tilts back and a moan whimpers past your throat.  His tongue laps at the mark he’s made on your pale skin but you hardly notice.  You’re too caught up in the sudden desire that breaches up within you like a tidal wave.  You thrust.  Thrust again.  Again.  Again.  Every drag of his cock makes you shudder as new waves of pleasure overcome you.  Before long, you’re bouncing in his lap and reveling in the slapping sound of each movement – and Loki’s kisses, and his hands as they roughly pull you into him with every downward thrust.
You’ve got a feeling that you’re going to be all bruised by the morning but you don’t care.  You care about nothing but him.  His tongue that flicks at your breast, his hands that clutch you, the wayward finger that presses at the top of your clit that makes you see stars –
“Loki,” you gasp, blinking brightly.  You go faster, grasp his broad shoulders and tilt your head back.  His lips immediately start kissing and nipping your neck, adding colorful marks to your skin as a painter might outline his desires onto a blank canvas.  One hand grips your lower back tightly, the other remains curled around your hip, continually pressing at your clit.  Every pass of your lower body sends delicious shivers running through you.  It seems the feeling is mutual, because after a while Loki just buries his face into your neck and silently holds you, the whiz of his fingers his only movement save for the harried gasp of his breath.
“Oh fuck,” you moan, tangling your hands into his dark hair and resting your chin against his forehead.  “Fuck Loki!  Oh Loki – “ His name continues to roll off your lips, until suddenly both his arms clench down around your waist and he halts every movement.  You frown in confusion and look at him, only to see that his eyes have turned darker and his skin is shifting color – almost –
“Get off,” he snarls.  This time there is a bite to his tone.  You know better than to disobey that voice, even when you’re brain is thoroughly muddled with the faded edges of what would have been the most gratifying orgasm you’d ever had.
You clamor off him, holding back your moan when you feel his hard length slide out of you.  He pushes you down and turns away from you, taking a deep, shaky breath and exhaling slowly.  His skin turns pale once more, void of any hint of blue.  But the moment has shattered, and with it his confidence.
It’s hard to believe that a man like Loki could ever be under confident.  He holds himself so proudly, but it’s only a mask.  And that mask crumbles in the face of his true nature – something he absolutely abhors no matter how many times you tell him it doesn’t matter.  Not to you.
“Loki…” you whisper, putting a hand on his shoulder.  He’s tense and doesn’t look at you, only glares at the wall with such force that you wonder if he’s trying to break right through it with his gaze alone.  You press your forehead to his shoulder, near your hand, and breathe out.  “You know it doesn’t matter to me.  I want you because you’re you – “
“It matters to me,” he snarls.  You don’t recoil.  You know he’s not angry at you, but at himself.  You just kiss the back of his neck and trail your hand down his arm. 
“I know,” you breathe, eyes closed.  “But I love you regardless, and that isn’t going to change.”  The words have been spoken before, but rarely.  When he hears that one specific word, Loki stiffens, hesitates, then exhales loudly.
He closes his eyes tightly and whispers, “Say it again.”  His voice is hoarse, tired almost, like he’s suddenly exhausted and ready to surrender to that exhaustion.  It is exactly what you’re waiting to hear.
You crawl around him, facing him.  His eyes slowly meet yours.  The mask is still there, but it has weakened, and you can see the disquiet plea that graces the edges of his eyes.  You push your forehead to his and run your hands over his chest, settling back into his lap.  He doesn’t make a move to stop you.
“…I love you,” you tell him.  He shudders, as if the very words are shards that cut him deeply.  Yet at the same time there is an efflorescent happiness in the contours of his face, and you hurry to whisper again, “I love you Loki.”  Your lips touch his, hesitantly at first but more firmly when he doesn’t move away.  “Always you, it’s always been you – “  And everything finally breaks into millions of beautiful cavalier pieces.
He kisses you hard, one hand tangling into your hair and pulling you tight to him.  The dominance of his kiss sends you reeling – as does the suddenness of his body as it bends yours onto the mattress.  Before you even know what’s happening, he’s hovering above you kissing you with all the desire he has.  It’s so lovely that you can only curl your legs back around his waist, push your aching core to his, and kiss him back with every inch of your own passion.
“I love you – “ you murmur in between kisses.  The words are muffled, swallowed, devoured, and his response is in every crevice of his breath, his touch, his love.
He sinks back into you without warning, but you don’t need one anyway.  You’re waiting, waiting, waiting, until he finally comes back to you.  And when he does, everything turns bright and beautiful and so relieving.
“Ahh…” you moan, shifting your hips into his.  He caresses you slowly, lips still moving against yours.  Each thrust is a surge of messages that you innately understand.  And before long, you’re arching into him and moaning his name loudly and the orgasm that had faded away before returns at full force.
“Loki!” you cry, hips moving erratically against his.  He pins you down and thrusts into you hard, dragging your finish out like the tapered ending of some great piano piece – shifting keys from desolation to destruction in its finest form.  He does destroy you, he always has, but you yearn for the transformation like a plant yearns for sun.
He follows you quickly, letting out a grunt that somehow makes you want to start all over again, because he never makes any noise during sex at all.  You watch him come, watch his face as it crumbles along with the rest of him.  But this crumbling is different from the last, and you think it’s wonderful to witness.
He pants, stills, covers your body with his.  The weight is comforting, but he rolls off of you against only a few moments and immediately drags you into his side.  You wrap your arm around his waist and bury your head into his shoulder and sigh. 
“Say it one more time,” you hear him murmur, just as the edge of sleep threatens to succor you into its depths.
“I’ll say it a thousand times,” you whisper sleepily, then press the words into his skin and then his lips, over and over until the mantra has become as much a part of him as the heritage he so solemnly wishes to deny.

Monday, September 28, 2015

An America Lemon -- Elevator

Character: America

Fandom: Hetalia

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: Getting trapped in an elevator.  The prompt idea is from someone who emailed me but I forget who you are!  I hope you see this lemon and realize that it’s for you ;)

You very much doubt that anything is scarier than riding in an elevator doomed to break down.  You have a mild claustrophobic issue regarding small spaces.  Except to your utmost amusement (sort of) and shock (well, not really) it isn’t you who does the most freaking out.  It’s the man who’s riding the elevator with you.
“Cripes!” he exclaims, and with a jarring bolt of the elevator Alfred is shoved forward…right into you.  You gasp as he hurtles you against the wall, stares at you in surprise, and then promptly turns as red as a beet.  And you suspect his embarrassment is for two things.
“…Cripes?” you inquire slowly, twisting the word on your tongue with an experimental flourish.  His blush deepens and you raise your eyebrows, enjoying the close view of it.  Close is perhaps an understatement: the force of the fall has pushed him to you like a magnet, and only inches of space separate your mouth from his.  You’d be distracted by that, if not for the amusing way he has suddenly shown his old age.
“It’s…it’s a saying, of course.  I uh…just forget I said it, okay?” he finishes quickly, almost blurting out the plea.  It’s embarrassing to show anyone the side of him that’s more old fashioned and wholesome, simply because those things just aren’t cool anymore.  It’s much cooler to be rude and brash and to wear your hat in a building and to not open doors for women and to curse and swear at every little bad thing that happens. 
You tilt your head curiously and suddenly Alfred seems to realize just how close the two of you are, and he jerks away with another heady blush.  You can’t bother to be distracted though because you’re still musing over this new part of him that you’ve never seen.  He certainly does a good job at covering it up.  Now that you think of it, all the countries do a good job at it.  Except maybe Austria but he’s not really good at anything but losing his mind in a musical score.
“What does it mean?” you ask, folding your hands behind your back and leaning against the wall.  He opens his mouth to respond but before he can, the elevator gives another lurch and the lights flicker out, only to be replaced by a menacing red strobe light that burns into existence then disappears, burns then disappears, over and over.  Every other second there is only darkness, so thick and complete that you’re only aware of his location across from you because you can feel him there, cowering in a very un-herolike way.  After a few moments of this you sigh, slide to the floor, and then say, “Come here, would you?” 
Immediately he comes forward, slides to the floor beside you, and shuffles himself into your side.  You never thought you’d be as close to him as you’ve become today, at least physically, and so you just damn it all to hell and loop your arm through his.  Touch is a powerful tool.  Yours calms him so quickly that a few seconds later, he starts chuckling.
You turn to him, glancing at what little of his face you can see through the quickly vanishing light.  You think he’s possibly more handsome than you’d ever seen him before, which is mildly ridiculous but there you have it.  Even in his fear, even in this horror-movie atmosphere, your heart beats for him.  It always has.
“What is it?” you wonder, tipping your head back to rest against the paneled wall.  He squeezes your arm closer, tighter, and says quietly, “It means ‘Christ’.  Back then…well, people didn’t usually say the actual word because it goes against one of the commandments, ya know?  So they’d make up words that sounded like it instead.  Silly.”  He chuckles again and you smile, squeezing his arm in return.  He turns to look at you and then gives you a crooked smile in return.
“You seem…like you don’t like elevators very much,” you slowly say, studying his expression as you speak.  It’s true.  Every time he gets into one he seems stiff, like he’s sure he’s going to die before he reaches his destination.  It used to amuse you but for a long time now, he only makes you warm with enchantment.
He pauses now, glances at you quickly, then clears his throat.  He’s never told anyone this but now seems like a good enough time for it, considering the situation.  So he shrugs and murmurs, “In the 1840s I went to a conference in London.  They had this new contraption called an ascending room.  I was interested in it so I decided to take it to the eighth floor – that was a skyscraper back then by the way, I was so impressed…anyway – well, the elevator broke halfway up, but it didn’t have the safety belts and things they have now.  It fell right back down and crashed on the ground floor.  I was all beat up and bleeding too.  Arthur was absolutely frantic, kept apologizing and offering me things…”  He laughs and shakes his head, not looking at you.  It’s just as well, because you’re face is horrified.
It’s no wonder why he’s always looked so hesitant about getting on an elevator.  If something like that happened to you, you’d never get on one again.  You’re surprised that he’s brave enough to do so even with that history hanging over his head.  When you tell him so, Alfred just smiles and says, “It took me years to get on another one.  When I did, I had a dozen people make sure it was in good condition.  And I’ve never ridden one by myself since then either.  If I’m alone I always take the stairs.” 
“Huh,” you say, musing over his words, “I’ve always wondered why you did that.  But Alfred,” you turn to him with a more serious face, “that isn’t going to happen to this elevator.  We’ll be absolutely fine.” 
He exhales and nods, honestly murmuring, “…I’m glad you here with me, [Name].”  You smile.
“Me too,” you softly say, but he’s still shaking and you’re still worried, even more so after hearing his story.  These sorts of things can be quite serious really.  They can lead to panic attacks and you aren’t entirely sure you’d be able to calm him from something like that.  For a moment you think he’ll be fine, nothing will happen, but you know this isn’t true.  When he tilts his head up against the wall and swallows hard, shivering as mightily as a hurricane, you know you have to take his mind off the nightmare he is in.
You aren’t sure what propels you forward.  All you know is that suddenly your leg is lurching over his, your body is twisting into his lap, and your face is once again inches away.  The proximity makes him stare, blindsided by the sheer audacity and abruptness of the move.  His cheeks redden, or at least you think they do.  It’s rather hard to tell in this reddish blinking hell.
“[Name]?” he whispers, his words coming short.  What can he say in this situation though?  That your weight feels absolutely heavenly on him?  That he’d be happy to stay like this forever?  Or that he suddenly wants to kiss you very very badly?
But before he can so much as squeak, your placing your hands softly on either side of his face and turning him towards you, thumbs brushing his chin upward.  He swallows hard again, but this time it isn’t because he’s afraid. 
It’s because you’re staring at him with eyes that seem to see everything, all the way from his viciously beating heart to the sharp slap of each brittle, unthinkable thought that crosses his mind.  Yet thinkable they are, and here you are with your wide eyes and your quivering lips and your inches of space.  And here he is with none of those, just a rocket for a heart and a rainy lethargic brain.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Alfred.  Do you hear me?” you whisper, almost so quietly that the words get lost between the paneled walls and out of sight.  But he hears.  He hears everything you say.  In crowded rooms your voice is the voice he gravitates to.  Your laugh and your smile and the way you have this enchanting way of making everyone around you feel like they’ve known you for years, even if you’re only a stranger to them.  You enthrall him merely with the honesty of your smile and the integrity of your laughing eyes.
You stare into his eyes and he stares back.  Perhaps you were waiting for his response, for a nod or a hum or something.  But you stop waiting the moment his eyes stop looking afraid.  When they instead become diamonds cut with the shards of his desire, you have no choice but to notice them.  Notice him and his desire, too.  And the gentle heat of his body and the slight hardness that presses itself to your thigh leaves you ragged and yearning.  And that’s all it takes for you to make up your mind, because in a way you’d already made it up years before.  When it came to Alfred, the answer is always ‘yes’.
A silencing beat later and suddenly you’re bridging the gap between you to press your lips against his.  He tilts his head up to meet you, capturing your upper lip between the both of his and dragging you into a kiss that makes your heart burn like wildfire.  Everything about him is wild in this moment.  His hands that grip your rear and shift you closer, his mouth that freely moves without fear, even the way he sits, like he’s waiting to jump off into some great ravine and is merely waiting for the go ahead.  You are that go ahead, and you intend on jumping with him into that craggy windswept valley built up with all your hidden passions.  Well they aren’t so hidden anymore and that’s okay. 
Something inside you doubts you ever felt anything as exhilarating as what this kiss makes you feel.  Emotions push through your skin, sinking like heat between your pores.  Your fingers clutch into his hair, pulling at their roots with a tug that makes him gasp, mouth spilling open and grunting half in pain and half in the pleasure of it all.  He is lost between the edges of two extremes tossed to the wind, two sides of the same coin that hits him hard in the chest.
“Ow,” he mutters, chuckling as much as he is allowed while your mouth ravishes his.  You bite his bottom lip and drag it slowly between your teeth, opening your eyes to stare challengingly into his.  He blinks back and his gaze appears brown in the flickering red light, as if burnt fire has somehow found a way to merge itself with blue.  You think it’s lovely in a dangerous sort of way and can’t help yourself from pushing your hands over his chest, up and down and finally being done with the fabric altogether.  Clothes are really such silly things.  That is probably why they don’t stay put.
Alfred is surprisingly muscular beneath all his clothes – a fact that you already know, of course, from the various summery UN vacations and other poolside retreats.  But never have you been so close to him before, not like this.  Not when you can touch him so freely and feel him so intimately.  Now when he clearly wants you to touch him more.
The passion fueling your movements gets momentarily doused, however, when you accidentally knock yourself against his glasses.  The kiss is displaced, broken, and you pause as if you aren’t sure where this leaves you.  Luckily Alfred can be quick on his feet when he wants to be.
He rips the glasses off, tosses them on top of his shirt, and, chuckling, drags your mouth back to his in a deep kiss that sweeps you utterly into his love.  You clutch at him, kissing him harder, tilting your head to accommodate the ferocity of this desire that thuds through you so relentlessly.  His hand slips beneath your shirt to feel the skin of your back, and suddenly the fabric is being pulled up over your head.  He drags you back into the kiss seamlessly, as if it hadn’t ever stopped, and you pant against him at his unexpected passion.  Unexpected or not, it makes your head spin.
“Mmm,” you sigh, taking his bottom lip between yours and sucking.  He responds in kind, lips moving luxuriously over yours, as if this is the most decadent moment he’s ever experienced.  You can understand the sentiment.  Because regardless of the not so romantic atmosphere, and the fact that you can’t even see him all that clearly, somehow this kiss has quickly transcended any other you’ve ever had.  It is undoubtedly because this is Alfred you are kissing – and that makes all the difference in the world.
“We probably don’t have much time,” you whisper, voice edged with a moan that makes Alfred tremble.  His body is pulsing with need, his blood racing through his veins, and his shaft has grown so hard that it’s more than a little uncomfortable as it strains against the denim of his jeans.  But the warning in your words is not something he wants to submit to, and neither do you for that matter.  Which is why the next moment, Alfred is shifting forward and lowering you down onto your back, his knees between your thighs.
“Do you want to stop?” he asks as the kiss breaks, hands propped on either side of your head.  But even as he questions you, he ducks his lips down to your neck, layering small kisses over the skin of it as one hand dips against the curve of your breast.  His fear has vanished in the flickering lights, and in its place rages a desire so strong that he cannot hope to suppress it.  Well, he’s never had very good self control after all.
You chuckle in the midst of the pleasure he’s giving you, and shake your head at the ceiling of this little square heaven.  How quickly it’s changed from evil to beautiful!  “No, don’t stop,” you tell him, arching your back and pushing your breasts into his hands.  He swallows back a thick wave of desire and hums.  Seconds later, your shirt has joined his and he’s jerking the cups of your bra down beneath your breasts in hasty passion.
There’s no time for pleasantries, no time for undressing you slowly or even giving you the attention you deserve.  There isn’t any time at all.  Neither of you know just how long it will take for the maintenance team to get here, and besides, the flickering abyss of the elevator box lends a paranoid swiftness of every touch and it thrills you.
Alfred smiles down at you boyishly and admits, “I don’t know if I’d be able to stop anyway.”  In fact the very thought of stopping, despite the hastiness of the situation, makes him blanch.  And the thought of his lost control leaves you yearning for more.  You lean forward, reach for the hands that are still toying with the bottom of your bra, and drag them up to cover your breasts.  He at the feel of your soft flesh beneath his fingers, and gently squeezes them and starts to massage the velvety skin with an eager touch.  You let out a mewling, breathless moan and tip your head back, overcome by that touch.  How does everything he does take your breath away so quickly?  You doubt you’ll ever get it back, not when he keeps –
“Alfred!” you gasp, because suddenly one of his hands has moved down, down, down and he’s stroking his knuckle over your core.  The touch is subtle since you’re still wearing your pants, but when he presses that finger harder against you, you jerk and exhale quickly.  His other hand gives your breast a firm squeeze and Alfred ducks his head to your chest, pressing fluttery kisses over your collar and the valley of your breasts.  Then his tongue suddenly starts lapping at your nipple, and whatever breath you still have is utterly lost.
“Mmmmmm…” you purr, shaking your hips against his hand and tangling your fingers into his hair.  For someone who seems so innocent when it comes to sex, Alfred is surprisingly talented.  And very take-charge.  You suppose it makes sense, really – he has been around for a long time, so of course he’d learn a thing or two about this sort of thing – but it still makes you ache that much more.  It’s like a switch has gone off in him, transforming him from the scatterbrained, chivalrous hero to something much more passionate and dark. 
“You like that?” he whispers lowly against your breast, his voice ghosting over your wet skin as his eyes slice up to yours.  Your fingers tighten in his hair and you smile lopsidedly.  Your eyelids flutter when his teeth gently scrape of the very sensitive skin of your nipple.  It gets even better when he switches, leaving a trail of wet kisses over your chest as he takes your other breast into his mouth and gives it the same treatment.
Another breathy moan, and you whisper, “Yes…”  You’d like to say something more, maybe something a little dirty to provoke more of that delicious darkness, but you don’t get the chance.  Alfred is suddenly shifting forward, moving both hands to your back and lowering you onto the floor.  He shifts his hips between your thighs and returns his attention to your chest, but before long he lifts his head to look down at you. 
Cold metal presses into your back and you arch up to him, seeking the warmth of his body.  He smiles boyishly and trails a hand down your side, moving his eyes over your form lazily.  “Wish we had more time, but – “
“I know, Alfred,” you interrupt cheekily, smirking up at him.  You move your hands to your jeans and undo them, dragging the zipper down.  He watches, eyes smoldering, as you start wiggling out of them.  Another switch seems to turn inside him, because before you get very far, he’s leaning over you and forcefully jerking the fabric the rest of the way off.  It’s strangely domineering and your heart twists breathlessly with excitement.
Alfred gives you a grin and you laugh softly, but your laugh vanishes when you feel his fingers toy with the hem of your underwear.  His thumb brushes over the lacy finish and then down, tracing your core over the fabric with a steady exploration.  Your eyes shift closed and you swallow, parting your legs for him. 
When his thumb circles the top of your clit through the lace, you whine, “Alfred, you know we don’t have time for this!”  Not that you’re complaining, but you are not leaving this elevator before you have him inside you.  After all, you doubt you’ll ever work up the courage to do something like this again.  You’re basically having sex in a very public place and could have an audience at any moment.
He chuckles breathlessly and mumbles, “I know, I know.  It’s just…I like touching you.”  The words are oddly sincere and somehow beautiful, and your eyes soften.
“I like when you touch me too,” you admit to him, and his eyes flash.  “But we’ll have time for that later.  Now take your jeans off.”
You aren’t sure what, exactly, excites him then – if it’s the promise of continuing this later on or the order you give him – but desire takes a firm hold of his expression.  He nods, hooks his fingers into your panties, and murmurs, “Yes, ma’am.”  The lace is pulled down and as you kick them off the rest of the way, Alfred works on his jeans.  He only pulls them down halfway, but it doesn’t matter.  All that matters is that you can properly see him.  And needless to say, you are impressed.
As you take in the sight of him, Alfred blushes just a little.  Unfortunately you still can’t see each other properly in this dark blinking box, but you can still see.  And feel.  And when he nestles between your legs and shifts his length against your wet core, you breathe out eagerly and yearn for more.  He is all too willing to give you just that.
“Are you ready, or should I - ?”
“Fuck me, Alfred,” you cut in yet again.  He pauses, eyes darkening, and desire prompts him forward with a groan.
“I could come just from your voice alone,” he mutters in your ear, and before you can answer, he slides into you.
It’s a tight fit, but that makes it all the better.  You’re already wet enough from his earlier ministrations that he’s able to take you fairly easily, and you whine and clutch at him as he spreads you.  Alfred gasps out and presses his forehead against his hand, which lingers near your head on the floor.  He shudders, thrusts out, and then presses further into you.  It’s shaky at first, but by the fourth of fifth thrust a pace is set.  And from then on, you’re arching into him and tightening your legs around his waist, and you’re lost in the feel of him inside you.
Every other second the red light quakes over your bodies then fades into complete darkness.  You rely on the feel of him to guide you along.  Somehow not being able to see him properly makes it all the more delicious, and you feel raw and beautiful on that floor with him hovering over you. 
One of his hands comes up to clutch at your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he moves his hips.  You moan into his ear and move your hands to his back, fingers shifting over his shoulder blades as they arch from his skin.  His breath is hot as he breathes against your neck, kissing you here and there between thrusts.  When you turn your head to face him, he gives you a shaky kiss on the mouth and you both chuckle.  Yes, this darkness is lovely, but you can’t wait to see him in full light, to explore his body when you both have more time to do so.  When you whisper this to him, Alfred groans lightly and thunders his hips faster into yours, pushing his length deeper inside you. 
You clench around him and he breathes out loudly, mumbling, “Mmm…lift your hips a little…yeah, that’s – that’s good…[Name]…!”  He pants against you and you do as he says, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts.  The power behind each one takes your breath further and further away, until you can only gasp silently beneath him.  He’s so big that you don’t think you’ve ever been stretched like this before, and you can already feel your finish spinning through you like a tight coil shattering.
“Al – Alfred!  Alfred, Alfred,” you chant, each time getting louder and more needy.  You’re so close – you’re so close you can feel your orgasm bounding through you and lifting you up off that floor and into the gravitational pull of this beautiful lovemaking.  And when you clench down on him and whimper his name and come, Alfred lifts his head to watch you through blurry, passionate eyes.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the edge of his voice tinged with a despair that only comes from this sort of crazy intimacy.  “And you’re mine, all mine – “ he gasps and thunders forward faster, roughly pinning your hips to the floor with powerful strokes.  He clenches his jaw and fists his hands, lifting his upper body off of yours to anchor his hips better.  You’re still clenching down on him, the remnants of your finish pulling and tugging at you – making your world brighten into a lingering brilliance – and it is with the sight of you clouding his mind that Alfred gives one last forcible thrust and trembles through his own orgasm, which absolutely takes his breath away.
“I’m yours,” you whisper, hardly able to speak as you lay there.  Your chest is heaving and he presses his forehead between your breasts for a moment as you both revel in the aftereffects of your union.  But you don’t get to linger for very long.
A grating noise crackles through the elevator, followed by a distant shout, and you know that the maintenance team is finally here.  It took them long enough.  Not that you can really complain. 
“Shit,” Alfred mutters, lifting himself off of you.  He reaches for your clothes and you sit up with a lazy smirk, pulling your bra back into place and grabbing your panties. 
“I think you mean ‘cripes’,” you tell him with a laugh.  He glowers at you.
“Careful,” he warns you as he pulls his jeans back up to his waist, “keep that up and I’ll have to punish you.”  The threat, of course, only makes you want to make fun of him all the more.
Your smile widens and he chuckles at you, helping you into your jeans and even going so far as to button them for you.  Now properly dressed, you reach for him and he circles his arms around you as you both wait to be saved.  Minutes later, the elevator lights flicker back on and Alfred breathes out a sigh of relief.
“Thanks for…erm…” he trails off, not really knowing how to finish his sentence.  You happily do so for him, “For fucking you?”  He blushes colorfully.
“No!” he exclaims, then squeezes you playfully and grins, “Well, yeah, I guess.  But mainly for taking my mind off of everything.”  You share a smile, and lean up to kiss him gently on the mouth.  He returns it slowly, reaching up to tangle his hand into his hair and keep you against him.
“Anytime,” you whisper, eyes gleaming with mischief, and he laughs shortly.
“You’ll be the death of me,” he mutters.  You’re going to respond, but his lips cut you off before you can and leave you moaning against him.
He’s going to be the death of you if he keeps this up…but then you can’t complain about that either, because you’re too busy wondering what other fears you can save him from.  You absolutely can’t wait to find out.


Thursday, September 24, 2015

A Greece Lemon -- Athens Is Falling

Character: Greece

Fandom: Hetalia

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: Sort of a companion to my other Greece smut "Oh Athens, Sweetly Rising"

Heracles is not very prideful and not all that interested in making selfish deals.  If he’d had his own way, he’d be off lazing around in his Athens apartment or walking sleepily through his city.  He certainly wouldn’t be on a “boat”, as he likes to call it.  In is in fact not a boat.  It’s a yacht.  But no matter how many times you remind him he doesn’t seem to care.  All he cares about is grumbling about stupid diplomats and the apparent joys of the Mediterranean, which is by the way done with such contemptuous sarcasm that even you are surprised by it.  Heracles is not very sarcastic, either.
For someone who has lived on the Mediterranean Sea all his long life, you understand why the joys of seeing it fall rather short in his eyes.  Even you have begun to see it more as a familiarity than as the startling, breathtaking beauty it had been upon first sight.  That’s what love does to a person, sometimes.  And often it is exactly that familiarity that makes love truly wonderful.  Less cold and unforgiving and detached.
“You should at least try to be sociable,” you nudge Heracles, glancing around the deck at the group of old suits chatting several yards away.  Your lover glances at them too, looking extremely disinterested, and mutters, “I think I’d rather take a nap.”  And for the sole reason of being stubborn, Heracles proceeds to drop himself into one of the long wooden chairs, propping his feet up and closing his eyes without another word.  You sigh.
You can’t really blame him.  The entire trip has been very last minute.  The visiting diplomats had planned to leave Athens early in order to take a drive along the coast.  It is purely a tourist reason, and it has frustrated you because you had already planned everything that they were supposed to be doing.  Taking a drive down the coast is not one of those things.  That had been when one of the men suggested that they all sail down the coast instead of drive, and you had tried to be as accommodating as possible.  It hadn’t been very difficult procuring the yacht since you work for Heracles.  What was difficult was getting said man to agree to tag along, as he was supposed to.
It had taken several hefty bribes on your part to get him to agree, but you couldn’t bribe him to pay attention to his guests when he had no interest in doing so.  You frown and lean against the railing of the upper deck, looking out at the enormous yacht sprawled beneath you.  It has three decks total, all of which are filled with the bustle of tourists as they enjoy the lengthened Mediterranean trip that you had paid out of your own pocket to get.  You are tired.  Tired and grumpy too, and yet you have to smile and pretend like you are happy.  You wish you could act like Heracles and drop dead somewhere, not having to worry about the guests.  But not everyone could be afforded the same status in life, and you have to work for your rest.  And your pay.
Another sigh tumbles over your lips and you decide that you should probably go and speak with the men in your group.  You are after all their event coordinator and tour guide.  The least you could do is explain the amenities that the yacht had to offer, if nothing else.  Luckily you aren’t expected to be around them on the ship itself, except perhaps for mealtimes.
“How do you like the yacht?” you ask as you approach them.  The men immediately turn to you graciously.  They like the yacht, they say.  They like the sights of the crystal clear water and the islands.  One of the men is holding a little pamphlet that the yacht provides, which lists all the venues that would be entertaining that night, and they are discussing which ones they want to see.
“What do you think?” the man asks, opening the booklet and showing you, “The cards, or this whiskey tasting?”  You lean forward to get a look at the pamphlet and raise your eyebrows.  Figures they would have a hard time choosing between gambling and liquor. 
“The whiskey tasting sounds interesting,” you say as diplomatically as you can.  In truth, neither sound very interesting at all, but you aren’t about to shoot down their plans.  You’re thankful that they’ve decided to go and do their own thing, as it leaves you with a much more relaxing evening. 
The man smiles rather strangely at you, and you know what kind of a smile it is.  It’s an I’m-humoring-your-obvious-disinterest sort of smile, but the way his eyes flash tell you that perhaps there’s something else there too.  You’re a little bit confused, but everything clears up when the man says, “Ah, so you enjoy your hard liquor, then?”  He is making fun of you.
All you can think about is how dare he make fun of you after all the trouble you’d gone through to get them onto this yacht.  You stiffen, thinking about the personal expenses you had made, about the way you’d had to bend over backwards and suck up to several people – something your pride had suffered for.  The thought of being ridiculed by some chauvinistic old politician makes your blood boil, though you ultimately don’t get the chance to make your anger known.
An arm is suddenly looping around your shoulders and Heracles is beside you.  His tall, lanky body shields yours in the most comforting, wonderful way, but you don’t outwardly react to his presence.  Doing so would be showing a weakness to these men, who obviously don’t think much of you even after the flawless job you’ve done since they’ve arrived in Athens.  Heracles must have heard everything from his seat, for his eyes are harder than usual and his face is not soft or warm like you know it to be.  He makes quite the impressive figure, standing in all his tall suited glory.
“She prefers gin.  Straight, on the rocks,” he drawls, squeezing his arms around you and then proceeding to drag you away before the surprised diplomat could respond.  You allow him, because you’re too surprised to stop him as well.
“…Straight gin?!” you hiss as he pulls you away with a scowl marring his features.  You scowl too, but for a different reason.  “I hate gin, and I could’ve handled the situation myself.” 
Heracles only grumbles and heaves you up against him the moment you’re both hidden from sight.  You gasp at the sudden move and stare up at him with wide, surprised eyes.  But he only blinks down at you slowly, and his green gaze is the only thing that gives away his emotions.  Harried.  Claustrophobic.  Passionate.
“What are you doing?” you whisper, simply as a means of shattering the strange silence that had built up between you.  But your lover doesn’t deem the question worthy of a response.  Not a verbal one at least.  Instead he just raises his eyebrows and gently presses you up against the wall near the elevators, his lips drawing close.  But he doesn’t kiss you and you think you might die from the anticipation of it all.
“Heracles…” you breathe, clutching his dress shirt.  It’s sage green and compliments his olive skin tone wonderfully.  But as much as you enjoy the sight of him dressed up, the idea of undressing him is suddenly infinitely more appealing.  You swallow thickly as he drifts closer, like a wave that crashes then retreats again and again.  His lips very lightly graze the edge of your mouth, brush over your chin, tickle your cheekbone.  It is oddly intimate and you close your eyes.  The moment your eyelids flutter shut, his lips burn gently against them, first one then the other, until you think you have become so breathless that you might faint.
“Heracles,” you breathe again, but this time your voice shakes and shatters, cracking in two like a hurricane swallowing life.  Your knuckles are clenched tightly to his shirt, wrinkling the fabric in a way that won’t be fixed anytime soon.  Heracles hardly cares.  He cares only for the shortness of your breath and the dilution of your eyes and the way every single part of you screams, ‘I need you now, so very badly.’
The feeling is mutual.  The day has been long, and Heracles is ready to free himself of it.  He smiles that barely-there smile, the one that happens to make you even more breathless than before, and tilts your chin up with his thumb.  Then he is kissing you properly, deeply, lovingly, and all you can do is cling to him and try to keep up.
In the midst of the heady kiss, Heracles pushes the button for the elevator.  The moment it opens he shoves you inside, all gentleness replaced for one moment by a startlingly powerful need.  The elevator can’t move fast enough, and Heracles impatiently drags you against him and dips his hands over your body luxuriously.  Every touch is planned: a result of such a boring day, walking behind you with a lovely view of your rear.
When his hands clasp over said rear, you bite your lip and glance worriedly at the elevator doors.  Heracles notices the concerned look but can’t possibly stop touching you.  It’s like a switch has gone off inside him.  His passion is suddenly limitless, bounding off in several directions at once, and the thought of reining all that in is tiresome to him.  So he won’t.  He’ll just let it wash over your skin and watch it consume the both of you in that delightful way desire often works.
“Heracles, I think we should – “ you gasp as your back hits the elevator wall.  With a little stumble you press your hands hard into his forearms as he follows you, folding his body against yours.  You forget what you were going to say.  All you can think about is the way Heracles is grunting and roughly forcing your dress up around your waist.
His lips descend on yours and the kiss he gives you now is lingering and breathtaking.  The elevator doors slide smoothly shut behind him.  With a playful squeeze to your hips, Heracles pulls back and gives you a languorous smile.  He turns his back to you and presses the button for floor 3, then slowly turns back around.  Hands stuffed into his pockets, shirt rumpled, eyes gleaming passionately…he looks in that moment more like a Greek God than you’ve ever seen.  Better. 
His eyes lazily, callously dip over your figure as he steps towards you.  He leans forward, pushing one hand against the wall beside your head and leaving the other in his pocket.  Something about him looks so dangerous, like he’s planning on devouring you whole.  You wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what’s going through his head actually.  When his eyes shine like that, anything is possible.
Finally he reaches for you, abandoning his pocket to instead splay his fingers over your revealed leg.  Your dress is still haphazardly shucked up around your hips and he enjoys the sight of you, gasping and trembling against the wall.  It is a good prelude for what he has planned.  A good beginning.
You aren’t entirely sure what you’re expecting from him.  It certainly isn’t the rawness of his touch on your core.  But when he slips his fingers into your panties and slides them down to curl around your heat, you can’t stop to complain.  Even if this is a public place and you’re nearly at your floor.  It feels too good to tell him to stop.
“Heracles…” you whisper, head tipped back as he hovers above you.  His long fingers slid easily against your core, wet already from the headiness of the kiss and the rough way he’s already touched you.  He knows what makes you excited and aroused.  He knows it so well that it’s easy to manipulate your body.  It’s hard to imagine Heracles manipulating anything, but then he’s got astounding levels of motivation when he feels like dragging them out.  Most of the time that’s only during sex, not that you mind.
“Mmm…the elevator…” you murmur, shuddering against him when he suddenly, roughly rubs at you.  His lazy movements turn immediate and fast, utterly fast, like he’s suddenly realized how little time there is.  “Oh!” you cry softly, eyes fluttering.  Your hips angle toward those delicious fingers and you tumble your hands into his hair.  His face is centimeters from yours but he doesn’t kiss you.  His lips brush your cheek, your nose, his breath puffs over your lips, but he doesn’t lean in for more.  He’s too busy watching the delightful way your expression turns hot and needy.
Then, just as you’re thinking you can’t possibly take another second of his too-fast touch, just when you think you won’t be able to stop yourself from coming from the agony of it all, the elevator stops.  It’s like a time bomb suddenly goes off between you.  Heracles launches himself away from you, stuffs his hands back into his pockets, clears his throat.  You tug your dress back down and push yourself off the wall, breathing fast and unsteadily. 
He’s a much better actor than you of course.  He’s had more time to hone that calm, lazy mask.  Compared to him, you can’t capture that subtle grace, that lazy expression.  But it doesn’t matter.  When the doors shift open there is no one around to see the mess you are, and you’re quite thankful for that.
Heracles chuckles darkly and glances at you, offering his arm.  You give him a look that tells him how exactly you’ll be getting him back but take the offering.  You doubt you’d be able to walk straight anyway.  The dull thud of your lost orgasm resounds through you, getting fainter with each second.  You slip your fingers around his arm and together you walk into the hallway, and you’re right.  Your gait is unsteady and shaky and Heracles smirks.
Luckily your room isn’t far from the elevator.  Heracles has the key card.  He digs it out of his pocket and sends you a look that makes you feel boneless.  Then with a smirk he pops the card in and the door clicks open.  You push yourself inside and nearly collapse in relief at the fact that you’re finally, finally alone.
“I can’t believe you,” you tell him with a glower that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.  You start pulling pins out of your hair as Heracles closes the door and leans against it, watching.  You’re about to say something else about his little escapades in that elevator but he interrupts you with a startlingly low, husky, “Stop.”  Of course you stop.  His delicious orders are too good to pass up.
“Leave your hair like that,” is all he says as he pushes off from the door.  His eyes are glittering with nine kinds of mischief and you take a shallow breath.  It doesn’t exactly help.
Your hand drops from your hair.  It’s half undone, and the rest of it is still twisted up on top of your head.  It looks messy in an elegant sort of way, as if you’ve slept on it without a care.  Several twists of flyaway hair frame your face.  Heracles smiles at the gracefully wild look about you and reaches up to unbutton the collar of his shirt.  He doesn’t look away from your eyes.  Not when he shucks the dress shirt away and not when he steps up to you, shirtless and beautiful.
Your breathing is a shallow mess of tangled gasps that heave through your chest.  When he reaches for you, you shiver almost violently.  The passionate touches in the elevator has made you sensitive and wanting.  He knows this.  He can see it in every shift of movement that rattles through you.  And when he calmly begins to unbutton your shirt, eyes still locked with yours, the anticipation in your gaze makes him smirk.
“You know what I love about these jobs?” he wonders airily, undoing the final button and opening your shirt.  He doesn’t take it off.  Instead he just reaches in to cup your breasts, and you’re intensely glad of your choice of lingerie.  Black lace, see through, splayed out against your skin like little cut-outs.  He’s glad too, if the gleam in his eye is any indication.
“What?” you whisper, eyelids fluttering as his calloused fingertips firmly squeeze you.  You feel like a sapling in a hurricane.  One shaky breadth of wind and you’ll fall over. 
His eyes flash and he leans in, but he doesn’t kiss you.  His mouth hovers near your ear.  His thumbs roll over your hard nipples.  Then he smirks that raw smirk and murmurs, “Seeing you dressed up like a sexy secretary.  Do you do that on purpose?”  Wear those tight skirts and those silk stockings and those high heels.  Make his wildest fantasies come to life and tease him with little reveals of your skin – skin that he can’t touch in public.  It drives him crazy.
You bite your lip when his hands drift down your waist, curling to your back and lower.  He grips your ass tightly, pressing your lower body against his.  A harsh gasp leaves your throat when you feel evidence of his erection plastered against his trousers, and your head falls back.  But still he doesn’t kiss you.
“…No,” you tell him, barely remembering to respond to his question at all.  He makes a noise in the back of his throat, plucks at your shirt, and smoothly rolls it down your arms.  Then, chuckling darkly, Heracles mutters, “You’re lying.”  He drops his head to kiss your neck and you swallow thickly when his hands return to your rear.
“You know what it does to me,” he whispers, fiddling with the zipper of your skirt.  Your breathing turns even more ragged when his tongue traces your jugular vein, nibbling at your skin.  He pulls the zipper down slowly.  His every move is a form of seduction.
The skirt falls to the floor, and Heracles murmurs lowly, “Every time I see you dressed up like this I want to rip your clothes off and fuck you.  I don’t care who else is around.  I’d fuck you right there in front of them all…”  He roughly squeezes your ass and you whimper.
His teeth scrape your throat lightly.  His fingers drift between the cleft of your rear and smoothly slide over the silk stockings.  You’re so wet that your panties and stockings are both soaked, something he immediately notices when his fingers curve down to touch you.
“Heracles!” you whisper, clutching his shoulders.  He doesn’t talk dirty to you all the time, but when he does it’s like an immediate turn on.  You’re mind could be on something completely different, but the moment he’d start talking like that you’d want nothing more than his touch.  It’s like passion has ripped a hole through your chest.  You can’t even think about anything else except the wicked promises in his voice and how much you want them to come to fruition.
He sighs out and smirks up at you devilishly.  “Look at how wet you are for me.  You like when I talk dirty don’t you?  Naughty girl.  I could take you right now easily, you’re so wet.  It’d just slide right in.  Do you want that?”  His fingers roll over your clit and you whimper again, your voice torn.  Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.  He’s driving you insane.
“Mmm…yes.  I want you to fuck me.  Hard.  Fuck me real hard, Heracles,” you whisper once you find your voice.  Two can play his little game. 
His eyes flutter and he pauses, shivers, and chuckles.  “Okay.  You want rough, I’ll give you rough, my sexy little secretary.  Strip.  But leave the heels.  Go on.”  He squeezes your ass one more time before stepping away from you, and you shiver at the loss of his warmth.  But the fire he has lit beneath your heart splutters on, brighter and hotter, stirred by the strength of his gaze as he blinks at you.
“Yes sir,” you tell him, playing along.  He sends you a smirk and sits down on the edge of the mattress.  You turn to him, give him a lingering one-over, and then send him a smirk of your own.  His trousers look uncomfortably tight, and the bulge in them is more than a little impressive.
You peel the stockings away, stepping momentarily out of your heels to strip them down your feet.  Then you slid the shoes back on and teeter there in the center of the room, flipping the stockings onto a nearby chair.  Heracles watches, watches as you unclip your bra, watches as you shuffle out of your panties.  Then, standing naked but for your stilettos, you saunter over to the bed and stand in front of him, and he immediately reaches for you.
He presses his face to your breasts, rubs his cheek over them.  The stubble on his jaw makes you shiver as it scratches over your soft skin.  His hands slid over your body, from your upper back to the front of your breasts to your hips and thighs.  Then he kisses one pert nipple before ordering, “Lay down on your stomach.  Spread your legs.”  The orders leave you feeling raw and beautiful.
You obey, sliding down onto your stomach.  The sheets are luxurious and expensive, and as you lay yourself over them you feel luxurious too.  Your legs fall open over the side of the mattress.  The cold air hits you hard, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing when you feel your lover’s hand on your bare ass.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, pulling your ass to the side and clicking his tongue.  He spreads your folds next, opening your core to his eyes.  You think you can’t get any wetter than you already are, but his calm actions make you even more so.  Especially when one curled knuckle traces the inside of your slit.
“You’re dripping.  What a wicked secretary.  Were you thinking about me all day, like I was thinking about you?  Did you fantasize about me?”  He circles your clit, then one finger inches into you, followed quickly by another, and another, until three fingers are spreading you and thrusting slowly and gently.  You bite your lip and bury your face into the sheets, gasping.  At this rate you’ll be coming before he even takes you properly.  You’re already so wet and so sensitive.
“Heracles, please,” you whimper, shuffling your hips to feel more of him.  He makes a non-committal noise and then a moment later, his hand is coming down hard on your ass and you gasp out loudly at the sting.  Jesus.  That was hot.  You grip the sheets harder and he does it again, spurred on by the sexy little gasps you’re giving him.
“So polite.  But you’ll have to be a bit more specific.  Tell me exactly what you want.”  Another slap, and his thrusting fingers quicken, making vulgar wet sounds as they enter and leave your soaking core.
You moan into the bed and spread your legs further.  In a ragged voice, you say, “I want…oh – I want your…mmm, your cock.  I want you to stuff your cock as far into my pussy as you can – fuck, Heracles!” 
Let it not be said that Greek lovers were inattentive.  The moment your words leave your lips, Heracles had his trousers halfway down his legs and was hooking his arms around your thighs, pulling you to the very edge of the bed.  His cock slides into you seconds later, filling you up so suddenly and so provocatively that you forget to breathe all over again.  You can only murmur nonsense into the wrinkled sheets.
His hands clutch your waist, squeezing your flesh almost painfully. 
He handles you roughly, starting off at an unforgiving pace that leaves you miles behind yet again.  Every slap of his hips into yours is loud in the shaky silence, and he only goes faster.  His body slides over yours, hands propped up near your shoulders.  Every thrust lifts your ass into the air and shoves his length deeper inside you.  So deep that it feels like he’s burning you from the inside out.
“Oh God…yes…mmm!” you’re practically sobbing and it’s sexy as hell.  He can’t stop, can’t slow down, even when he feels the ripping sensation of his orgasm start to tear through him.
“Come for me,” Heracles tells you, almost desperately.  He needs to feel your come around him before he finishes.  He needs the tightness of your release to succor him into his own.  And you do.  You’re already so aroused that it takes mere seconds of his sweet dirty talk to make you crumble, and then you’re coming so brilliantly that you cry out, eyes wet with tears, body unfurling into the mattress below him.
He watches you come, feels you squeeze his cock, and into that tightness he lets himself go with a growling cuss that makes you aroused all over again.  His thrusts bruise you, his hand reaches down to pull your hips against him.  He fills you up with a heat that has you gasping and writhing and crying, and when it’s all over you can only lay there and moan.
With a heaving sigh, he pulls out of you and then collapses into bed beside you.  He shucks off the trousers that still cling to his legs and chuckles at the ceiling.  “Forgive me,” he murmurs to you, turning his chin in your direction as his eyes slip closed, “I didn’t last nearly as long as I meant to.  You’re just so fucking sexy.  Couldn’t help myself.” 
A thrill whirls through you at the words and you laugh breathlessly, lifting yourself up onto your elbows and shuffling toward him.  “’S okay,” you murmur tiredly, plopping down into his chest.  He immediately curls himself around you, pressing his naked body to yours intimately.  “I love it when you lose control,” you tell him, kissing his shoulder and gently stroking a fingertip over his temple.  He catches your hand and brings it to his lips, leaving a lingering kiss on your knuckles.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he tells you.  The promise makes you shiver all over again, and he chuckles.  “Mmm…just give me a few minutes…” his eyes shut again and his breathing deepens, and his expression turns lazy and sleepy.  He’s beautiful.
“Heracles…” you whisper a few moments later as a thought suddenly crosses your mind.  He hums curiously and you tilt your head towards him.  “You haven’t kissed me properly since the elevator.  Just realized.” 
His eyes flutter open to blink at you.  A moment trickles slowly past.  Then he smirks subtly and playfully knocks a knuckle against your chin, “Then come here, agapi.” [1]
You smile and lower your lips to his, and the slow drag of passion makes you sigh out happily.  You stay there for a long time, pressed against him and kissing him in the dusky glow of early evening.

[1] agapi … love