"world of good" (1/2)planesandcranesApril 15 2014, 04:49:29 UTC
a/n: i literally CANNOT write sex but this is the sexiest thing i've ever written so i hope it's okay!!!! i needed to write some hercules so i looked for prompts and i was like.......this one. this is the one. awesome prompt, anon friend! i hope u like it!!
*
it’s an ache.
it’s the little things -- when she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and he sees her long, quick fingers brush against her cheek. when she’s sitting and she brings one knee up so she can tie her sandal, then she crosses that leg over the other one so elegantly. he watches the fabric of her dress cling to the curves of her legs, her waist, her breasts. he watches it rustle and sway along with her hips, the hips that swing and tease and torture him without her even trying.
he sees these things, and he aches.
he saved her, you know? he fought the lord of the dead for her soul, and he won. and his prize was her choosing him, staying with him, living with him -- except he can hardly handle living with her anymore. because sometimes she’ll throw her head back when she laughs and she’ll expose the smooth, lovely skin of her neck, her collarbones, her shoulders. sometimes she’ll stretch and she’ll arch her back, and sometimes she’ll absently lick her lips and--
it’s an ache. it hurts because he wants her so bad, and because he doesn’t know what to do about it. she’s special. she’s so much smarter than he’ll ever be, and she’s tough, and she’s funny, and she’s the most beautiful woman in the universe and he can’t hurt her. he won’t hurt her.
he doesn’t even know if it would hurt her, he’s never done it before, but he’s not gonna take the chance.
he’s never done it before, though, and -- he bites his lip, he feels his face turn pink -- he wants to.
“hey wonderboy,” she says, her eyes lighting up as she sees him. she’s laying on a chaise in one of his trophy rooms, calm and comfortable as always, her body like liquid. or silk. or something. he thinks these trophy rooms are ridiculous and embarrassing, but she likes them for their quiet. he doesn't usually visit her here but he wants…something. he’s not sure what yet. he wants to talk, at least. “come to admire something?”
she winks. he squirms.
“y-yeah,” he says, sitting down next to her, trying to make himself as small as possible, which is dumb, he realizes. “it’s you. it’s definitely you.”
she laughs, showing off that glorious neck, throwing her arms wide and shimmying a little. “well, look all you want. i’m not going anywhere. i’ll be one of those statues if you want me to.”
“no, no, i...i like it when you move.”
she smirks, and she moves toward him, every part of her body working effortlessly, no stumbles, no hesitation. he still wonders how she chose him, as clumsy and inarticulate as he is. he flinches as she touches his thigh. she leans into him and whispers, her breath on his neck, “how do you want me to move?”
he gulps. “meg, i--” he twitches, his hips shift upward without his control. he’s incredibly warm, and a little dizzy. he aches. “oh, gods. i love you so much.”
“i love you too.” she says it like a sigh, like it’s still a dream, like she can’t believe it’s real. he’s the one who still can’t believe she’s real.
"world of good" (2/2)planesandcranesApril 15 2014, 04:50:11 UTC
“i don’t know how to--”
“it’s okay,” she says, rubbing circles on his thigh, her hand slowly making its way toward the part of him that wants her most, that aches the most. “you don’t have to know anything. loving me is enough.” she sits up again so she can look at him. her eyes are shimmery, and a little nervous. he’s not used to her being nervous. “i never thought i’d find anyone who loved me, let alone” -- she gestures at all of him -- “this. whatever you do, it’ll be perfect. you’re perfect, remember, wonderboy?”
he rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling. “that’s what you keep telling me.” he looks around the room, at the statues and paintings of himself. strong, shining, heroic. “but...i want to stay your hero, you know? i want to be good for you.”
she leans into his chest, taking his hand in hers. “you’ve already done me a world of good. you’re allowed to be bad every once in a while.”
his hips buck upwards again, and he’s starting to sweat. he doesn’t think he can take this aching anymore, and the way her eyes are sparkling lets him know she is more than willing to relieve him. gently, she lays her hands on his chest and pushes him down on the chaise. she rests on top of him for a while, giving him the softest, sweetest kisses on his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, and fleetingly, intoxicatingly, his lips. he doesn’t know how much more he can take of this, but she’s holding his face like it’s precious, like he’s worth more than all these golden trophies and marble statues, like he’s her hero.
after an eternity of soft sweet kisses and smooth skin and hot breath and lingering, aching touches, she pulls her skirt up and says, “i’m ready when you are.”
he nods, his head heavy and dizzy and happy, and all he can say is “i love you, meg. i love you. i love you.”
*
it’s an ache.
it’s the little things -- when she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and he sees her long, quick fingers brush against her cheek. when she’s sitting and she brings one knee up so she can tie her sandal, then she crosses that leg over the other one so elegantly. he watches the fabric of her dress cling to the curves of her legs, her waist, her breasts. he watches it rustle and sway along with her hips, the hips that swing and tease and torture him without her even trying.
he sees these things, and he aches.
he saved her, you know? he fought the lord of the dead for her soul, and he won. and his prize was her choosing him, staying with him, living with him -- except he can hardly handle living with her anymore. because sometimes she’ll throw her head back when she laughs and she’ll expose the smooth, lovely skin of her neck, her collarbones, her shoulders. sometimes she’ll stretch and she’ll arch her back, and sometimes she’ll absently lick her lips and--
it’s an ache. it hurts because he wants her so bad, and because he doesn’t know what to do about it. she’s special. she’s so much smarter than he’ll ever be, and she’s tough, and she’s funny, and she’s the most beautiful woman in the universe and he can’t hurt her. he won’t hurt her.
he doesn’t even know if it would hurt her, he’s never done it before, but he’s not gonna take the chance.
he’s never done it before, though, and -- he bites his lip, he feels his face turn pink -- he wants to.
“hey wonderboy,” she says, her eyes lighting up as she sees him. she’s laying on a chaise in one of his trophy rooms, calm and comfortable as always, her body like liquid. or silk. or something. he thinks these trophy rooms are ridiculous and embarrassing, but she likes them for their quiet. he doesn't usually visit her here but he wants…something. he’s not sure what yet. he wants to talk, at least. “come to admire something?”
she winks. he squirms.
“y-yeah,” he says, sitting down next to her, trying to make himself as small as possible, which is dumb, he realizes. “it’s you. it’s definitely you.”
she laughs, showing off that glorious neck, throwing her arms wide and shimmying a little. “well, look all you want. i’m not going anywhere. i’ll be one of those statues if you want me to.”
“no, no, i...i like it when you move.”
she smirks, and she moves toward him, every part of her body working effortlessly, no stumbles, no hesitation. he still wonders how she chose him, as clumsy and inarticulate as he is. he flinches as she touches his thigh. she leans into him and whispers, her breath on his neck, “how do you want me to move?”
he gulps. “meg, i--” he twitches, his hips shift upward without his control. he’s incredibly warm, and a little dizzy. he aches. “oh, gods. i love you so much.”
“i love you too.” she says it like a sigh, like it’s still a dream, like she can’t believe it’s real. he’s the one who still can’t believe she’s real.
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“it’s okay,” she says, rubbing circles on his thigh, her hand slowly making its way toward the part of him that wants her most, that aches the most. “you don’t have to know anything. loving me is enough.” she sits up again so she can look at him. her eyes are shimmery, and a little nervous. he’s not used to her being nervous. “i never thought i’d find anyone who loved me, let alone” -- she gestures at all of him -- “this. whatever you do, it’ll be perfect. you’re perfect, remember, wonderboy?”
he rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling. “that’s what you keep telling me.” he looks around the room, at the statues and paintings of himself. strong, shining, heroic. “but...i want to stay your hero, you know? i want to be good for you.”
she leans into his chest, taking his hand in hers. “you’ve already done me a world of good. you’re allowed to be bad every once in a while.”
his hips buck upwards again, and he’s starting to sweat. he doesn’t think he can take this aching anymore, and the way her eyes are sparkling lets him know she is more than willing to relieve him. gently, she lays her hands on his chest and pushes him down on the chaise. she rests on top of him for a while, giving him the softest, sweetest kisses on his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, and fleetingly, intoxicatingly, his lips. he doesn’t know how much more he can take of this, but she’s holding his face like it’s precious, like he’s worth more than all these golden trophies and marble statues, like he’s her hero.
after an eternity of soft sweet kisses and smooth skin and hot breath and lingering, aching touches, she pulls her skirt up and says, “i’m ready when you are.”
he nods, his head heavy and dizzy and happy, and all he can say is “i love you, meg. i love you. i love you.”
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