#Epic Drabble

[multi-fandom-imagine]

hey!! I loved your Epic series, and if it doesn't bother you, can you do one of places where Apollo would have sex with fem!reader? <3

A/n: Excellent

Apollo’s Favorite Places He and You Have Had Sex

By the god of poetry, prophecy, music, and absolutely unholy sex

1. In the Temple Dedicated to Him

Of course this is one of his favorites. What kind of god wouldn’t want to be worshiped in every possible sense of the word?

He had you spread across the marble altar, sunlight slicing through the columns like golden blades, casting holy light on your naked skin. The air was thick with incense — frankincense, myrrh, and your scent, which he swears is now his favorite perfume.

Apollo took his time, slow and deliberate, the kind of slow that’s maddening. He whispered praises into your ear in Ancient Greek, tongue flicking along your neck as he slid into you. Every roll of his hips made the mosaics overhead seem to shimmer. “You were made for this,” he muttered, hands holding your thighs open like he was offering you to the gods — except he was the god, and you were already his offering.

By the time he finished, you were trembling, back arched, the altar damp with sweat. He looked down at you like you were the prophecy he never saw coming — beautiful, divine, and absolutely wrecked.

2. On His Sun Chariot (While It Was in the Sky)

“Do you trust me?” he asked with that infuriatingly perfect grin — right before lifting you into the flaming chariot mid-sky.

The chariot moved fast, powered by his divine horses, soaring through the clouds. The wind whipped your hair back, and the sunlight painted his skin in godly gold, brighter than anything mortal eyes could bear. But he only had eyes for you.

He had you bent over the front of the chariot, bracing yourself against the golden frame as he pounded into you from behind, every thrust rattling the heavens. The horses neighed in approval (or protest — honestly who cared?), and the mortals below probably thought the streaks in the sky were shooting stars. They had no idea it was just Apollo fucking his favorite mortal across the stratosphere.

You came screaming his name — and somewhere, a poet was struck with inspiration.

3. In the Oracle’s Chamber at Delphi

The sacred space where his voice speaks through the Pythia and now, through you, when he’s deep inside and you can barely form coherent words.

The first time it happened, he caught you staring a little too long at the bronze tripod where the Oracle sat. He raised a brow and said, “Wanna sit there?” And you, of course, didn’t realize what he meant until he was lowering you onto it, letting you straddle the seat while he knelt before you.

His tongue was devastating. Divine. Almost cruel with how expertly he worked you up, dragging it over your slick folds, licking and sucking like it was ambrosia. He held your thighs open, whispering things no mortal should ever hear — promises of how he’d make you feel like a goddess, if only for a moment.

And then he stood, slid into you with a slow groan, and suddenly you understood why the Oracle spoke in tongues. Because with Apollo inside you, gasping and calling out is the only language that makes sense.

4. In the Middle of a Field of Poppies

Sun-warmed, lazy, dream-dazed sex. One of those days where he’d wrapped himself around you under the golden sun, fingers lazily stroking your skin, feeding you grapes and kisses like you were Persephone and he was trying to lure you into staying forever.

The poppies rustled around you, soft and fragrant, as he slid between your legs with the kind of tenderness that made your chest ache. He didn’t thrust so much as roll into you, every motion a sin made sacred by the way he whispered your name.

This was slow, syrupy sex. Hands in hair. Lips on collarbones. Words like “mine” and “always” murmured like prayers. He made love to you, and then he did it again, even slower, even deeper, until you were boneless and blissed out and wearing nothing but petals and his fingerprints.

5. On the Stage at an Empty Amphitheater

Because Apollo isn’t just the god of prophecy and plague — he’s the god of music, and your moans are his favorite melody.

He sat on the edge of the stage, legs spread, cock hard and leaking, beckoning you forward like you were his next performance. You sank to your knees, mouth parting around him, and he groaned like the first note of a song.

But that wasn’t enough. It never is with him. He pulled you up, bent you over the edge of the platform, and slid into you with a low hiss. The acoustics made everything louder — the slap of skin, the wet sound of your cunt, your broken cries as he fucked you harder and harder, until your voice echoed across the stone walls like some ancient hymn.

He swore later that if anyone ever heard that echo, they’d be compelled to write the next great tragedy. One that begins and ends with a god losing his mind over a mortal like you.

6. In His Sacred Grove — Against a Laurel Tree

Oh, this one was personal.

You were teasing him, wearing one of his laurel crowns and nothing else, lounging among his trees like you owned the place. “You know that’s sacred,” he warned, but you just smiled.

So he made you kneel before the tree, cheek pressed to the bark, while he took you from behind, fingers gripping your hips so tight you bore little bruises shaped like his hands.

“You think you can mock me, little nymph?” he growled against your neck. “I’m a god. Your god.”

You bit back a moan, but he smirked. “Say it. Who do you belong to?”

“Apollo,” you gasped. “I belong to Apollo.”

He didn’t stop until your legs gave out, and even then he lifted you, pinned you to the tree, and fucked you into it like he was staking his claim on nature itself.

7. In His Library — With You Bent Over His Scrolls

Knowledge? Sacred. Learning? Beautiful. But nothing makes Apollo harder than seeing you stretched across his parchment, smudging ink with your sweat and slick.

He had been reading. You had been distracting. And suddenly, you were bent over the desk, skirt bunched around your waist, hands grasping for the edge as he filled you from behind. Scrolls fell to the floor. Candles flickered. The only thing louder than your cries was the sound of his hips slamming into you.

He groaned every time you clenched around him. “You’re ruining centuries of wisdom,” he growled, “and I don’t even care.”

You came with his name on your lips and a map of ancient texts pressed into your back. He came with a curse and a promise — that he’d bind you to him, with words and moans and the kind of pleasure only a god can give.

Honorable Mentions

• In the bath, with golden oils and lazy kisses

• During a thunderstorm, while lightning crackled around you

• In mortal disguise, in a crowded temple, with his fingers inside you while you tried to stay quiet

• Against a mirror, watching you fall apart and loving every second of it

And the best part?

Every time he takes you — no matter the place — he swears he falls a little more. You’re his muse, his madness, his favorite song. And he’ll keep writing you into every verse, every prophecy, every moan that leaves his lips.

Because for Apollo, the god of light, there is nothing more divine than the way you say his name when you come.

[randomfandomworks]

“I look into your eyes and I think back to the son of mine, you’re as old as he was when I left for war…”

Odysseus can’t help but smile as he gazes down to the baby boy cradled in his arms.

He’d spent years trying to get home, trying to see his family again. It had never occurred to him that his family may have grown in his absence.

His son, his boy, Telemachus, had grown into a wonderful man. More than that, a wonderful husband and father.

Odysseus had learned quickly about you, his sons betrothed, as he settled in back home.

He watched as his son reminded him of himself, hopelessly in love and devoted to his wife. A proud feeling swelling in his chest as he reminisced and caught the softness of his son's eyes on you.

His pride only grows as he watches his son become a father. A little baby boy that reminds Odysseus so much of the one he left behind all those years ago.

Odysseus watches his son hold his own boy, watches as he shares his immeasurable joy with you, listens as Penelope tells their grandson stories, and imagines what it must have been like after he’d gone.

Baby Telemachus being rocked to sleep with stories of adventures filling his head, growing and only knowing his father as myth, finding you and falling deeply into love just as his father before him had.

Now Odysseus’s grandson rests in the nursery where his son once laid. Now a grandfather, Odysseus rocks the boy to sleep the same way he had so few times with his own son.

And as he lays him in his crib to rest he’s grateful to not miss this. To be here to watch his son be a part of all the things he couldn’t.

For Telemachus to experience all the firsts with his boy that Odysseus missed with him.

[angelltheninth]

hullo! could i request some seperate fluffy nsfw hcs for apollo and hermes fingering and teasing their fem! s/o who's very easy to fluster + and becomes very vocal when they pleasure her pls? ty!!

I can for sure, they're both very cute!

Pairing: Apollo, Hermes x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, fingering, teasing, fluff, clit stimulation, blushing, getting flustered, masturbation, handjob

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Apollo design by @/sugar_dells, Hermes design by @/El_crafts.

Apollo moves his hand between your legs as a leisurely pace, three fingers spreading you open over and over, slowly opening you up again and again every time your pussy clenches. He's laying behind you, gently fondling your breast while kissing your neck, leaving your skin warm and sensitive.

"Am I too warm for you, sunshine?" He kissed the sensitive spot behind your ear, making you shiver.

You reached behind you and pressed your hand against his cheek. Since you were too shy to be fully chatty with him when he was so cocky, especially in early mornings when the Sun was just rising, bathing you bot with it's light, with Apollo's light. You felt like your entire body was enveloped with his warmth. "It's... not too much. It's nice to... feel you everywhere."

He smiled warmly against your skin, his thumb pressed against your clit, keeping constant pressure on it while his fingers curled inside of you, hitting your weak spot. "Is that so? That makes me happy, I could stay here with you forever, making you feel good, making you come over and over, making love to all holes available to me." Apollo sighed, his hips and cock pressing against you, warm cum dripping from his swollen tip.

A low whine feel from your lips as you felt pleasure building, felt him dragging it out of you with every thrust, every scissoring motion of his fingers inside of you. You knew you didn't need to ask him for an orgasm, he never needed to ask him, Apollo just gave them to you, every single morning without fail.

Hermes snickered down at you, all mischievous and playful as he pulled his fingers out and plunged them in again, other hand this time. "Not enough yet, eh? You're gonna make my hand cramp up, being so demanding of me, sweetheart." He moves quickly, his hand and arm almost a blur. Like your mind was.

Your body arched into his touch, your moans higher pitched when you saw him rubbing your slick over his hard cock, mixing it with spit and his seed. Hermis grinned as he noticed the flustered look on your face.

"How many does this make now? Five? Seven? I lost count honestly. have you been keeping track?" He asked with faux curiosity. He didn't care how many times he made you come, all he knew was that it still felt good for you, so he kept going. While he was a jokester he was also very much in tune with his lover's needs and stamina.

"I never count." You admitted, "I stopped trying." Your mind was a mess of lust, you braced your hands against the pillow and the sheets, trying not to think of how messy, covered with sweat and fluids they were right now. How many of those fluids belonged to you, how many belonged to Hermis, how they mixed together perfectly.

He shrugged and grinned wider, "I'm so flattered by that, I can fuck you silly just with my fingers. Awww, you're so cute! No wonder I can never get enough of you." As Hermis blew a kiss to you he pinched your clit with his fingers, his fingers that were now covered with his cum. It sent shocks through your overstimulated body, making stars dance in front of your eyes, his goofy smile never weavering.

[mannythemunchkin]

HERMES DRABBLE

🔞18+ MDNI🔞

TAGS: Smut, p in v, fem!reader, afab!reader x Hermes, porn without plot, drabble, not beta read we die like the crew, the demons needed out, mating press, praise kink of you squint.

WORD COUNT: 480

A/N: OKAY SO, THE HERMES BRAINROT IS ROTTING. He has effectively changed my brain chemistry, and I need him on a carnal level. Enjoy the filth, you heathens. 💛

ART BY XIMENA NATZEL

“H-Hermes~! Oh gods…” 

Hermes had you straddling his thighs, his hands tightly gripping at your waist, almost bruising your skin, as he moved you up and down in his lap. Soft grunts and huffs escaped him as he focused solely on the wet, silken grip around his cock, the light flutter and quiver your inner walls did each time he shoved you down on him. His fingers dug into the supple flesh of your hips as he leaned in close, his tongue traveling up the column of your throat, eliciting the most delicious mewls and moans from you.

He could listen to you like this forever, the sweet sounds of pleasure, your breathy whispers of praise each time he hit that one spot within you that made you see stars and clench so tightly around his aching length. 

“Just like that, sweetheart~ so good to me, aren't you?” Hermes cooed sweetly against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point in a feather-light touch, causing your breath to hitch, the steady rhythm of your hips stuttering for a moment, before moving at an even faster pace. You nodded eagerly, and your hands found their way to his hair, your fingers threading through his thick curly locks, before turning into fists to pull his head closer against your neck. “So good, Hermes. You feel so good, so deep~” 

A quiet groan rumbled in Hermes’ throat at your praise, his cock twitching inside you, desperate for release. With a swift movement, he had you on you back, his hands in a bruising grip on your thighs as he used his full bodyweight to press you into the meanest mating press of your life. He pistoned into you, his movements erratic and desperate as he chased your mutual release. He dipped his head down between your knees, which he had pressed almost fully against your shoulders, and he left sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along the valley of your breasts, his teeth and tongue working over your hardened nipples to drive you off the edge. “Cum for me, darling. Show me how much you want me, hm?” Hermes rasped against your skin, tugging harshly at your nipple for emphasis, before angling his thrusts, making the tip of his cock brush against your g-spot with every motion of his hips. 

A strangled cry left you, and he felt your orgasm wash over you, your silken cunt clenching and quivering around him in sweet bliss. It didn't take more than a few more thrusts before he snapped himself as deep as possible with a throaty groan of your name, spilling himself deep inside you. Hermes thrust a few more times, riding out both of your orgasms while muttering sweet praises and endearments against your chest, up your neck. He stared down at you, his silvery eyes cloudy from pleasure and his lips quirked in a satisfied half-smirk. 

[starfullofideas]

cod brainrot and epic the musical brainrot overlapping-

imagine being married to king john price before he goes off to war, taking simon with him as his trusted hand of the king; gaz stays with you, advisor and protector of the queen. (telemachus, in this scenario, kinda)

ten years pass. twenty.

when price gets home after twenty years of gods, witches, war, cursed islands, with only simon left out of 500 men, only to find out that 100 fucking suitors who have been hounding his wife for twenty. fucking. years? he pulls out a sword rusted with blood and reminds everyone why he was called the Wolf in his youth.

there’s only one good one- some young lord mactavish who only came here after being pressed by his own council. price lets him live after he shares everything he’s learned over the past decade he’s been around.

everyone else? lord graves? prince konig? some foreign king makarov, who he heard plotting on how exactly he’d force himself onto his pious queen? oh, dead fucking meat.

(price. has had. enough.)

might write this into a full fic idk but anyone is welcome to expand

[dreamer81093]

“Why—Why do you keep doing this? Over and over and over again, you break yourself to pieces for others and never let me help!”

“Because I don’t want you to! You have enough to deal with!”

“So? You matter most! Not some stupid job, not money, not who lives or who dies! You!”

“But you need to not have to deal with the things I can! You need rest and you need these breaks—”

“I need you!”

…

“I-I need you. Only you. So please, don’t shut me out. You’re all that I need.”

[winxanity-ii]

I JUST CANT GET THIS IMAGE OUT OF MY HEADDD

SILLY HEADCANON

ughhhh

Like when the kitchen serve smth that Y/n doesn’t like but she also doesn’t not want to seem like a picky eater she will just take a few bites then play coy and spoon feed it to Telemachus. Mask it as all lovely dovy n stuff, n everyone thinks they are sooooo cute but only Telemachus knows! And after a while he gain weights, like his baby fat returns, yet he still savour every bit of foof Y/n feed him…(he then process to lowkey do the same to Y/n..)

NO BECAUSE THIS??? THIS IS CANON. THIS IS SO THEM 😭😭

Telemachus sitting there, all pink in the face, cheeks full of food he didn't even ask for while Reader's like "oh nooo, I'm just being sweet~ ❤️" when really she's like "if I have to eat another mouthful of this I will simply pass away so YOU handle it."

And the baby fat comeback??? STOP. He's already built like he grew up on war bread and stress, so seeing him soften just a little because of you?? You feeding him with your own hands??? YOU'RE FATTERING THE PRINCE??? I'm about to faint in the name of love and domestic gluttony.

AND THE FACT HE STARTS DOING IT BACK??? I can already hear him all smug like, "Oh, so you didn't like that soup? That's alright, I’ll eat it—open." cue spoon dramatically aimed at your lips like it's war strategy 😩💖

This is the kind of softness that keeps me breathing. I'm clutching my pearls. You are a genius. A menace. A blessing. I want to write this. I want to breath this. I want to experience this in my life 😭

So um. Yeah. Here's a little scene you inspired:

𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 (post-move to the palace wing, late afternoon, private dining nook. Fluff overload.)

The stew was… awful.

Not poisonous—just aggressively bland. The kind that clung to your tongue and made your soul beg for forgiveness. A tragic grayish lump of overboiled roots and forgotten ambition.

You took one bite, then another—enough to seem polite—enough to fake it.

Then you set your spoon down with a sweet sigh and scooted your bowl ever so slightly toward the middle of the little table.

"Mm. You should eat mine too," you said, voice honeyed as you leaned your chin into your hand. "It's still warm."

Telemachus looked up from his own bowl, which he had been eating tucked by your window, sunlight catching on the tips of his lashes. He blinked at you, lips parted like he was mid-thought.. "That's the third meal this week you've 'sweetly' surrendered to me," he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm starting to think you hate the palace menu."

You tilted your head. "Noooo," you said, much too fast. "I just like seeing you eat. You look happier when you're chewing. Like a thoughtful goat... It's comforting."

You spooned up a bit of your untouched stew and leaned across the table. "Here," you offered with a sweet smile.

He huffed a laugh but leaned forward anyway, letting you feed him a bite. His mouth opened, and he bit down, wincing slightly.

"Mmm," he deadpanned.

"You didn't even chew it all the way," you whispered, scandalized watching as his jaw flexed as he chewed.

"Didn't need to. The pain was immediate." He raised a brow. "Tastes like boiled disappointment."

You giggled, scooping another bite. "C'mon. One more. I'll even give you a kiss if you finish it."

Telemachus froze.

You blinked at him, innocent.

He took it, eyeing you the whole time, before glancing at your down at your bowl. "Wait a second," he muttered. "You hate this stew."

You blinked again, wounded. "I would never—"

"You always get all syrupy with the compliments when the kitchen messes up," he went on, leaning back in mock-revelation. "That soup on Monday. The weird lemon thing on Tuesday. The steamed cabbage loaf yesterday—"

"I was being supportive of the kitchen's dishes and wanted you to try it," you interrupted.

"You made me eat three of them."

"It's character-building," you said, solemn.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

"You're not off the hook, you know."

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

Then slowly, he stood from his seat, circled the table, and crouched beside your chair.

You opened your mouth to say something else—but he plucked your spoon out of your hand before you could.

"Say 'ah.'" he murmured, crouching beside you now.

You blinked. "Telemachus, I—"

"I'm serious."

"You're going to make me eat it?"

"I'm going to feed it to you. Lovingly. Like you do me."

You stared at him with narrowed eyes. "That's evil."

He smiled—sweet, smug, soft around the edges. "Say 'ah.'"

So you sighed… and opened your mouth.

The stew was still awful.

But gods, his grin afterward made it easier to swallow.

He didn't comment when you tried to sneak him another bite halfway through.

He just took it. Quiet. Smiling. Watching you like he'd been waiting for this game to unravel.

And so it went—your silly little food dance. You pretending not to hate it, him pretending not to notice, and somehow both of you ending up full, and quietly warm.

And by the end of the week? His jaw was softer. His tunic snugger. You mentioned nothing.

Until one afternoon, when he poked his stomach and muttered something about needing to train more—because his belt was starting to groan when he sat down.

You just grinned.

And handed him another spoon

[child-from-olympus]

「 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐇𝐲𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐡 」

[𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐]

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Pairing: Telemachus x GN!Reader !

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Rating: NSFW !

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Note: 3.2k words.

It wasn't until later that you finally reached the concealed bathhouse of the palace, walking through the entrance arched in stone and into the solitude of the area. It was quiet — devoid of any women or men — with only the gentle breeze pushing and pulling at the water as the warm light sun cascaded down to its surface. With enough luck, the sun had warmed the water enough to be considered lukewarm.

You pulled Telemachus towards a nearby marble-carved bench helping him sit down and not missing his low wails and groans.

He seemed to let go of his own consciousness for a little while, staring down at the ground beneath his feet before his neck craned up to look at you in the eye.

“Would you mind helping me undress?” He questioned you quietly. It was a silly question- he was injured, and you clearly didn't want to leave him alone fending for himself… So you nodded.

“Not at all, prin- Uhm. Not at all..." You quickly disregarded your automatic slip up, moving close to kneel down in front of the young man.

You unfasted the leather straps of his chest armour carefully, focusing on the job at hand rather than the slight blush that was creeping on Telemachus’ face as he looked down at you. It's not that he was a pervert or anything — he hadn't been bathed since he was a child — so having that experience again, and with someone that was his approximate age, had to be rather weird.

Letting the armour fall down to his lap, you set it aside on the stone bench, unclipping the polished iron fibulae, the beautiful brooch that had some intricate carvings of emblems you didn't recognise, of his chiton; the white linen garment quickly falling from his body and bunching around his lap.

Neither of you spoke, save for Telemachus' soft panting. He seemed to know what to do exactly, lifting his hips with the little strength he had and another pained groan as you muttered an apology under your breath, finally slipping the long piece of cloth down his legs.

Now, you were by any means no depraved person, keeping your eyes respectful enough to look down at the floor as you unfastened the straps of his sandals far a bit too quickly.

Telemachus felt embarrassed as well — if he had a choice, he wouldn't be forcing to put you through this — but barely could he lift an arm without his muscles immediately screaming for rest. The man wanted to speak up an apology for the situation you were put in, but the circumstance seemed inappropriate for any words. But not saying anything seemed inappropriate as well. Should he speak up now? Or was staying quiet the better option?

“There.” You had muttered quietly, already setting his sandals aside which he hadn't even felt being removed.

“Thank you… And I'm so sorry for this.” He finally found the words at the heat of the moment, and you just shook your head with a small chuckle.

“There is no need for apologies, Telemachus. It's my duty.” You told him with as much honesty as you could. Yes, it might be a bit uncomfortable for both of you, but even if you weren't a servant, you'd still help the poor young man regardless of both of your statuses. Telemachus fell silent at your statement, watching your close movements as you finally lifted yourself up, only to try to lift him up now.

With a few huffs and much needed strength, Telemachus made it easier for you to pull him up by the arms, leaning him against your body as you guided him towards the glistening water of the bathhouse’s grand pool.

And when you finally lowered him into the water, Telemachus seemed to forget the sharp pain shooting through his body, instead sinking down into the water with a deep sigh of relief, feeling the sunny warmth ease his muscles. He leaned against the side of the pool, his gentle blue eyes following your movements carefully. For a moment, he simply watched you… Paying close attention to your gentleness and grace as you once again stood up from your kneeling position at the edge of the pool, turning around and stepping back away.

He watched you walk farther, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. The strange feeling of suddenly thinking of being alone made him embarrassingly call out to you with urgency.

"Ah, wait-" His voice echoed sharply in the marble building.

You turned your head around, confusion dawning on your face before a gentle smile suddenly quirked up on your lips.

"Do not fret, Telemachus. I was going to fetch some oils; you are in need of a bath, are you not?" You questioned him. Your question, though, made you wonder if he would indeed mind if you bathed him or not.

You didn't feel exactly confined in yourself when it came to a situation like this (even though this was the very first time out of your twenty years of living). You were more worried about what Telemachus truly wanted.

You watched as he visibly relaxed against the tall steps of the bath's steps, expression softening. Your gentle demeanor and the way you spoke to him were so different from the usual formality he was accustomed to. He nodded slowly.

"I would enjoy one, yes. Thank you, ____." The young man admitted with a small smile, turning his head back around.

You turned back around as well, already standing in front of the table holding various small aryballoi with various designs and shapes. These small flasks held oils for the people to use, each one having different distinct smells. You never used them much when you came here — always preferring to keep washing short unless you really needed one.

You grabbed two different flasks, bringing the mouths of the pottery up to your nose… Some of them had a painting of the flowers used on the flasks, but distinguishing the scents was fairly easy as well; you could smell lilium, violet, narcissus… And until you picked a particular one that smelled of hyacinth, you set all the others you had in your arms down. The light sweet scent of the flowers was perfect, so you carried it back carefully and set it on the ground right behind Telemachus.

He was quiet, head devoid of hanging low as he stared right in front of him.

You were quite hesitant of the task you were handed, even with Telemachus’ own approval and solicitation of so. You gulped down a slight lump in your throat.

“Do I… Well, may I start now?” You questioned, and his head slightly turned around.

“Yes, of course. Whenever you feel ready.” The man told you, tone light and friendly as if he was comforting you. You appreciated the amiability.

Then, carefully, you poured the sweet smelling oil contents of the tiny aryballos into your lifted palm, setting the now empty ceramic aside as you soaped up both my hands; the strong, sweet smell assaulted your nose pleasantly. Both alms snaked from around his neck, hovering right above his torso.

Feeling your hands hovering over his torso made Telemachus’ heart rate pick up slightly. He felt your warmth even before your hands touched him, and when they did, it was surprisingly gentle. Your touch was careful, almost reverent, as if you were handling something precious. You made sure to be extra gentle — soaping up his whole torso as you discreetly traced his abs with both your hands before making your way up, hands gliding across his chest. Was it perverted to enjoy this slightly? Had you never touched someone like this before. Your whole life revolved around being a servant of Nestor.

You slid your hands everywhere in his torso, washing the young man before you thoroughly. Hands finally found their way to his shoulders, not washing but yes massaging the muscles there. You didn't know exactly what you were doing either! Fingers sliding smoothly across the clean skin there as you traced various repeating patterns. You had watched a maid do it once to another when she was tired… maybe you could have the same effect.

And to your absolute surprise, Telemachus leaned into your touch involuntarily, a soft, almost inaudible sound escaping his lips as your fingers worked expertly into his tense shoulders. The combination of the warm water and your gentle touch was practically hypnotic. For the first time in his life since forever, he felt safe enough to let someone else tend to him like this once again.

"Tell me if it's too much..." You felt the need to tell him quietly, voice barely above a whisper as you kept working your self taught magic on him. Telemachus just nodded slightly, completely out of it.

Telemachus’ noise stopped briefly as you kept working to relieve him from his tension, shy to tell you to move your touch to other areas of his strained body.

Shy, but never too shy.

“Could you… do my arms as well?” He took it after you and reduced his voice to barely a whisper as well. His request was gentle, like he was just high hoping for it.

You nodded, even though Telemachus was turned away from you. Sucking in a short breath, your hands moving lower from his shoulders and smoothly sliding down to his upper arm — pulling and pressing against the muscle there.

He let out a soft sigh of relief as your hands moved to his stinging biceps, pressing gently against the tight muscles in his skin. Telemachus could feel the strains easing with every touch, and it felt incredibly intimate, much as it was awkward to admit for him. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to break the spell you were weaving with your fingers.

His eyes did open after a while as soon as he felt your delicate hands travel up his arms, rounding his shoulders and back to his chest. Shame washed through his head as the man bit his lip silently, deplorably wondering what it would be like to have those hands explore other parts of his body… The urge to tell you to go lower was strong, but Telemachus held himself back, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

“I… As you have seen, I can't walk very well either…” Telemachus’ voice got lower every time he had another request at the tip of his tongue, as if he got more ashamed by each one he decided to ask of you. You understood him well; excruciating was the feeling of your task at hand… maybe not to you, but to him.

But that was quite the total opposite of what Telemachus had in mind as you helped him sit on the side of the long marble step of the pool, sitting turned left from you. The young man couldn't stop the shamefully indecisive feeling of wanting your hands to go lower — to touch parts of his body he hadn't thought anyone would ever touch anytime soon. Telemachus had never asked anything from any people he ever met: he wanted to wait. Wait for the one, just like the stories of his mother and the man she fell in love with.

But as you moved your delicate fingers so dexterously along the muscles of his shins, he wondered if he really had to wait? And who knows… As his blue eyes travelled up, they rested blissfully on your focused face. He was only now fully admiring how admittedly beautiful you were. A face that seemed to be carefully sculpted from the most gleaming milestone — eyebrows knitted together in concentration as your lips remained the very same shape, although almost pressing into a thin line — and your eyes… Those were probably his favourite part. Deep, fixed eyes of the colour of tourmaline. Even as you looked down, hair framing your face perfectly, he still focused the way your eyes had a natural gleam to them.

But as Telemachus focused on your perfectly blessed features, he didn't even dare notice how his body was reacting underwater until an almost inaudible groan slipped from his parted lips, closing his eyes softly briefly. He would be ashamed of this further, especially because he was in front of a foreigner, a soul he didn't know at all and had yet to discover more about. And this wasn't exactly the way Telemachus expected to get to know you.

His legs spread slightly unconsciously, and although you tried to ignore it, assuming it was involuntary action, you were doing horribly trying to not take notice of his growing reaction between his legs; eyes flashing briefly to the now standing member before you forced them to focus back on his skin. You had never interacted with many people besides a few ones that dared to try to court you. You were inexperienced in every way, but you still tried to remain composed and ignore curiosity. ‘This was a prince! The prince of Ithaca, for the Gods' sakes! You are a servant!’

He let out a soft groan as your thumbs brushed over his sensitive skin, his hips bucking slightly. He was fully hard now, his erection straining against the water. Telemachus knew he should stop this, but he couldn't bring himself to. Your touch alone was driving him completely wild. He looked up at you through his lashes, soft eyes that held longing, with a soft tint of plea. He wanted you to touch him there so badly it hurt. He knew this was wrong, he didn't know how you felt about all of what was happening, but he spread his legs wider — daring inviting you in.

Painful, long moments passed as your pressed lips did their work to avoid letting out any shaky breaths that might give away your want. You wanted it. To touch him. Badly. Your eyes flashed over to the erect member again, your head tilting lower so your locks hid the way you stared from Telemachus. Although, he already had his gaze on you, and the young man seemed to notice this.

He reached out, taking one of your hands in his with the grace of a delicate falling leaf as his fingers wrapped around the back of your soapy hand, fingers wrapping around the spaces of your own fingers. Slowly, he guided it down, placing it on his lower stomach, right above his straining erection. He looked at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Shame had completely run out of his head, now. He needed you. He needed your touch.

“Touch me… Please, ____…” Telemachus said hoarsely, wobbly worded.

Your eyes, head tilted slightly as your locks almost covered them up, widened more as you looked dumbfounded at the prince's request, breathing ragged with anticipation as my eyes trailed over to his hard, standing erection, and then back at how delicately he held your hand in his. You gulped.

"I-I... Uhm... I don't know... How to..." You said it so apprehensively, looking away, down at the water as you heard a soft groan from him, almost keen to a soft, breathy laugh.

“It's alright… Sorry, I'll show you..." Telemachus said, guiding your hand lower, and wrapping your tender fingers around his shaft. You could feel his skin between your fingertips; calloused and veined as you felt it, soaked from the water and smooth as he began to pump slowly, guiding your hand.

You were completely mesmerised — eyes wide open, lips parted as you tried to control your rough breathing — and his noises were the best part. Music from the only one of the bestest instruments as he moaned and whined. Just because of your touch. And Telemachus watched you intently with half lidded eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he moved your hand up and down his length. He could see the curiosity in your eyes, the way you bit your lip as you watched him pleasure himself with your hand. It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen.

The prince finally seemed to slowly loosen his grip on your hand, letting you go at your own now practising pace as you held onto his thigh with your other hand, supporting yourself up from leaning too much towards him and falling into the water. He moaned louder when your hand moved with rapid fervour, and you wanted nothing more than to hear more of those sounds rip from his throat.

You were thankful every single man was out in the courtyard still training under Hipparchus' command, or else you'd have a lot to explain to the commander and especially the King. But you pushed those thoughts aside, instead focusing on the pleasure you gave the young Ithacan prince laid next to you, the feeling of his skin against both of your palms was so incredibly titillating that you couldn't help but lean just a little closer above him.

And with a choked groan, his shaft twitched in your hand suddenly, the whitish liquid releasing over your hand and into the bathwater below. Telemachus kept your hand wrapped around him, milking out every last drop as he rode out his orgasm with satisfied breaths.

You both just stayed there silently, Telemachus was panting from the intensity of his climax, while your breath was not as violent, simply still not believing what came over the two of you. You lifted your gaze up from the water to look over at Telemachus, but much to your surprise, his eyes, shining like apatite gemstones, were already looking into your own gleaming ones with a strange fondness…

But before you could even utter a single word, you felt a sudden strong push behind you, one that tore away your balance on the edge of the pool of water below, that had a shriek ripping away from your throat before a loud splash came from the water around you — before you landed right on top of Telemachus himself. Supporting himself with bent elbows as he looked up at you wide eyed.

You didn't know what in Zeus' name seemed to push you so suddenly off the marble edge, but you weren't complaining. You grabbed at the clothes you were, feeling them soaked and clinging to your cold skin, but Telemachus found the sight of you absolutely mesmerized above him. The way the sunlight sleeping behind made the sight of you absolutely ethereal to look at.

And suddenly, he had a hand gently gripping your chin, guiding your face down with the grace of a swan until both of your lips finally touched. And it was the warmest feeling ever. For both you and Telemachus — sharing such an intimate moment, now finally pressed against each other as the water gently splashed around you both with each tiny movement.

No thanks to a certain winged God yielding a bow, sat at the top of the open roof of the bathhouse. A chuckle escaped past his rosy lips as he watched his two victims, fallen victims to his arrows.

And his wings fluttered high, disappearing into clouds as the two of you finally got comfortable in each other's arms. Enough for the prince to return the favour by doing the very same in return.

[wncestnoir]

implied wincest; pov mary

(she knows but she doesn't want to acknowledge it really)

Mary noticed it the moment Sam walked into the kitchen— he moved stiffly, favouring one leg as he leaned against the counter, gripping his coffee like it was the only thing holding him upright. She’d spent enough time around injured hunters to recognize when someone was covering up pain.

“You okay?” she asked, her eyes flicking over him, waiting for him to admit it.

Sam barely hesitated before nodding, forcing a small smile. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Mary narrowed her eyes. He was lying. She studied him, expecting him to crack, but he held her gaze, casual and steady. Fine. If he didn’t want help, she wouldn’t push.

But before she could push, Dean strode into the room. His eyes barely skimmed the room before locking onto Sam, and just like that, the entire atmosphere shifted. Dean stopped mid-stride, his easy smirk fading into something sharp, something focused.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked, voice already edged with concern.

Sam sighed, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

Dean didn’t even blink. “Bullshit.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, without any real resistance, Sam admitted, “I cut my leg.”

Mary’s stomach twisted. So he had been hurt.

Dean was already moving. “How bad?”

“Not that bad.”

Dean didn’t believe that for a second, and neither did Mary. But unlike her, Dean didn’t even ask before pushing Sam toward a chair.

“Sit down,” he ordered.

And just like that—like muscle memory—Sam obeyed. No argument. No hesitation.

Like this was just how things worked.

Mary watched, arms crossed, as Dean knelt in front of his brother and carefully unwrapped the bandage. She caught the way Sam relaxed under Dean’s touch, caught the way he barely flinched despite the obvious sting.

Like this was normal. Like this was routine.

Dean’s fingers were steady, firm but careful, like he had done this a thousand times before. Because of course he had.

He had been the one to raise Sam. And the thing that killed Mary was that he knew it too.

Dean wasn’t just being protective—he was proud.

Proud that Sam had come to him instead of her. Proud that after all this time, after everything, he was still the only person Sam truly trusted to take care of him.

Mary felt it like a slap. I’m his mother. That’s supposed to be me.

But it wasn’t. And maybe it never had been.

When Dean glanced up at Sam, his voice softened just a fraction. “You should’ve told me sooner, Sammy.”

Sam swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “I didn’t… I don’t know.” His voice was quieter now, almost uncertain. “I told Mom I was fine, but then you walked in, and…” He exhaled. “I guess I just wanted you to handle it.”

Mary felt that like a slap.

Dean finished wrapping Sam’s leg, patting it lightly before standing. His hand automatically found Sam’s hair, ruffling it with that effortless, easy affection that made something burn in Mary’s chest.

It wasn’t just casual care.

It was intimate.

Mary saw the way Sam looked up at him—eyes warm, lips twitching like he was holding back something softer.

She cleared her throat, forcing herself to sound calm. “You really didn’t think to come to me?”

Sam’s guilt was immediate. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Mom.”

And maybe he hadn’t. Maybe it wasn’t intentional. But the fact remained—when he was hurt, when he was vulnerable, when he needed someone—he didn’t go to her.

He went to Dean.

Again.

Like always.

Mary took a sharp breath. “I’m your mother, Sam.”

Sam flinched slightly, and before he could even respond, Dean squared his shoulders beside him. His entire stance shifted—defensive, protective. Possessive.

“He knows that,” Dean said, his voice sharp.

Sam winced, glancing at Dean before looking back at her. “I know, I just—”

“Then why?” she asked, unable to keep the frustration from her voice. “Why go to Dean?”

Something flickered in Sam’s eyes, something hesitant. He looked at Dean again, and Dean met his gaze with something fierce.

Then Dean turned back to her.

“Because it’s me and him,” he said, voice firm. “It’s always been me and him.”

The finality in his tone made her chest ache.

Dean wasn’t just explaining.

He was staking a claim.

Mary swallowed, feeling something heavy settle in her gut. She opened her mouth, but there was nothing to say, nothing to argue—because she hadn’t been there.

Dean had.

Always.

And Sam let him.

Sam didn’t just trust Dean—he belonged to him.

The weight of that realization sat heavy in her throat.

She glanced between them again—Dean’s stance, firm and unwavering, Sam’s eyes still lingering on him, soft in a way that wasn’t brotherly.

Oh.

Oh.

Mary took a slow breath, something unreadable flashing across her face.

She didn’t say anything else—just nodded once and turned to leave.

She didn’t need confirmation.

She suddenly just knew.

Mary had spent years dreaming about getting her family back. But now, standing in front of her grown sons, she realized—this wasn’t her family to reclaim.

It was theirs.

And no matter how much she hated it, no matter how much it hurt—there were some bonds she would never break.

She didn’t look back.

______________________________________________________________

just a little drabble aka my attempt of getting back into writing and because i couldn't shake this idea out of my head. there's just something so appealing about mary and the boys. her looking on from the outside and analysing their relationship. it's just so fascinating to me. anyways <33333

[kibbyy]

what do you think cait thought about jayce disappearing?

do you think she understood when she realized viktor was gone too? do you think she hopes the two just ran away from it all together? or is she too pragmatic and accepts jayce is dead (i’m a “they woke up in an au found a cabin and lived happily ever after” truther to cope)

how long do you think she waited for him to come home? what do you think she told his mother? i feel like cait would have told ximena he died fighting to save them and succeeded but cait deep down would always wonder exactly what happened.

i’ve just really been thinking about jayce and caitlyn and what we missed out seeing about their relationship because arcane wanted to squeeze like 3 seasons worth of content EASY into one season.

i’ve always loved caitlyn even with the flaws she has, she had me by the neck ever since i saw her following jayce back to his apartment right before it blew up. she was too cute i swear. then the brothel scene with her and vi sealed the deal.

at least vi and cait had each other for comfort after losing their siblings? another thing in common? 😭

arcane i need answers i beg

[witless-winion1]

Everything’s changed since Polites…

Eurylochus swallowed, watching as Odysseus leaned against the mast. Falling asleep. Honestly, it was a miracle the man had lasted this long- nine days was incredible.

But why was he forcing himself to stay awake that long? What was in that gods-damned bag?

The crew whispered around him day and night, murmurs of suspicion and unease. What’s in the bag? Treasure, like the strange wind minions of Aeolus? Or something more sinister?

“There’s no way there’s a storm in the bag,” one had muttered to his friend over dinner. “What bullshit. Just because he says it’s from a god doesn’t mean it’s plausible.”

“Bet he just doesn’t want to share,” another shrugged.

“Enough, both of you,” Eurylochus had snapped, sick of listening to them. But he regretted it when they looked over at him.

“Like you’re not curious,” the second had rolled his eyes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the representative of the crew? Can’t you just go peek at that bag?” The first asked, taking a drink from his cup with a raised eyebrow. Eurylochus shook his head firmly.

“No. I trust the captain. Whatever’s in that bag, he’s withholding it for the good of the crew.”

“What are we, children?” The first scoffed. “We’re grown men. We deserve to know what’s going on.”

Eurylochus had dismissed them both, ordered them to hurry up with their dinner and go above deck for their night shifts.

But for all his confidence, he could not stop thinking about that godsdamned bag.

Somehow, it even got into his dreams! He woke up one night, sweating, shaking, hearing the screams echoing from inside the bag. They sounded eerily similar to the ones from the cyclops’ cave, from the comrades they had managed to save, and those they hadn’t.

It was driving him mad.

And so, when Odysseus finally passed out, having forgotten to lock his cabin door in his sleep-deprived haze, Eurylochus cast a glance around the deck, before slipping inside.

Odysseus was flat on his back, an unusually vulnerable position for the war-hardened king, snoring directly at the ceiling. It made Eurylochus think of the time when, in their boyhood, he had fallen asleep leaning on him after some particularly tough training with Athena. Eurylochus had merely shaken his head and carried Odysseus back to the palace; he knew not of whether Euryclea had ever told Odysseus how he’d woken up in his bed when he’d last been awake in the middle of the forest.

And tucked into- or rather, slightly squashed under- his arm, was that cursed bag. It looked so plain, but there was something game-changing in there. He could feel it.

He slowly stepped forward, stealth difficult with his size, but he could make his touch gentle as he carefully shifted Odysseus’ arm off of the bag, grasping it by the rope it was tied with, lifting it from the bed-

“Eurylochus.”

He froze at the familiar voice, punctuated with the slightly-less-familiar thump of wood on wood. The wind bag hung in the air, blatant evidence of his crime.

Polites was standing in the doorway, an uncharacteristic frown on his face. He leaned heavily on his crutch, and Eurylochus winced at every thunk it made as he limped deeper into the captain’s room.

“My friend, what are you doing?” He asked with a rare tone of sternness. The barely-healed scar puckered his downturned lips, his head wrapped with both bandages and his deep red headband. Perimedes had once joked you couldn’t tell where the bloodied bandages ended and the iconic headband began.

Eurylochus couldn’t make himself meet his eyes, slowly lowering the wind bag back down beside the captain’s arm, though his grip on it only tightened. “Polites. Aren’t you supposed to be in the infirmary getting your bandages changed? It’s almost sunset.”

“Don’t change the subject. My bandages can wait ten minutes.” Polites hobbled closer, and Eurylochus was surprised at how tempting it was to shrink back from the smaller man’s displeasure. “Tell me why you’re betraying our captain’s trust.”

Eurylochus looked down at the sleeping king’s face. “Polites, do you really believe that there’s a storm in this bag? Surely you agree that his claim is absurd..”

“Just because it is absurd does not mean it is impossible. We have seen stranger things in the war, have we not?” Polites pressed. “And if he is telling the truth, opening that bag would put us, all of us, in danger. I was awake for the storm, remember? I may have been in the infirmary and wasn’t seeing most of the damage, but it was bad enough to reopen one of my wounds just lying still, for goodness’ sake.”

Eurylochus pressed his lips together. “The crew is mistrustful…”

“The crew does not know him as well as you and I!” Polites thunked closer, close enough to place his free hand on Eurylochus’s arm. “My friend, you know Odysseus has our best interests at heart. And we know Odysseus is doing everything in his power to get us home fast, safe and sound. He would not do anything to jeopardize that. He’s a warrior of the mind- well, Athena may have revoked that title when they fought,” he muttered. “But that’s beside the point. What reason would our Odysseus have to lie to us about something so dangerous?”

Eurylochus still couldn’t meet his eyes, his face now flushing with shame and embarrassment. Polites was right; he was being paranoid. Perhaps the war had taken a greater toll on him then he cared to admit to himself.

He slowly lowered the bag back into Odysseus’ patiently waiting arms.

Polites smiled at him, and nodded once. “Thank you, my friend.”

Eurylochus sighed and shook his head. “Thank you, for helping me see reason,” he murmured, finally meeting his old comrade’s gaze.

His glasses were cracked and crooked, but behind them his eyes were still shining with that same earnestness they always had, the same openness that Eurylochus had always admired.

Polites shook his head, gesturing him towards the door. “It was nothing. You can relax, my friend. It can be our secret.”

Eurylochus hesitated, then shook his head as he followed Polites’ clunky steps toward the deck. “No…we’ll tell him when he wakes. I don’t like keeping secrets. He should know what a fool his second-in-command is.”

Polites chuckled lightly, stepping out into the wind of the sea and the rays of the brilliant sunset, tousling his curly hair and sparkling on his glasses. “If that helps the guilt inside your heart,” he murmured, bumping his elbow against Eurylochus’ side. Eurylochus would have returned it, had the idea not caused him great fear of hurting his still-recovering friend.

Eurylochus nodded. “Yes…now go get your bandages changed up. I’ll stand guard outside his door and make sure no one tries to make the same mistake as me.”

Polites smiled approvingly. “Good man.”

And with that, he hobbled off towards the infirmary. The light of the dying sun reflected off the wine dark sea, leaving Eurylochus to do the same on his actions.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I have a thought for epic. Before Telemachus went on his diplomatic mission, he was scrawny because he didn't have any warrior training. And his wife loved that about him. But hear me out. He comes back, after all the training from Athena and such and he is so much stronger and has more muscle and his wife is like "DAMN!!"

A/n: I love this 🤣 also like let me know if you want a smutty part 2 👀

You were one of the best things that happened to him, Telemachus. You saw him for who he was, not for being the son of Odysseus and now....now he was leaving you behind.

(Something he did not want to do)

Lip's quivering, you did your best to not pout as you grasped your husband's hands gently in yours as you gazed up at him. "Come back to me."

Telemachus smiled as he pressed his head against yours as he gave you a soft kiss. "Always."

It's been close to a year, a year without your sweet and gentle husband and now you've had gotten word he was finally returning home. You've always knew that Telemachus wasn’t a warrior when he’d gone.

Not yet.

Telemachus had always been gentle—long-limbed, a bit too lean, always more tongue-tied than bold, except when he spoke of justice. Or you.

You’d fallen for his soul, his smile and those beautiful eyes, not his sword arm. For the way he listened more than he spoke.

So when the guards called out—“A ship! The prince returns!”—you dropped the basket you were holding and without thinking you took off into a sprint.

You ran to the shore.

And stopped cold.

Because the man disembarking was not the same scrawny boy who left.

He was taller now, shoulders broad beneath a dark cloak, a glint of bronze beneath it where his armor clung. His arms—Gods, his arms—were no longer slender but strong, defined with muscle earned from battles and training alike. He walked like a lion now, not a hesitant deer. Confident. Controlled. Powerful.

And then he smiled...that same sweet smile.

Your Telemachus was still in there—that soft tilt of the mouth, the boyish warmth that bloomed behind storm-colored eyes.

“Wife,” he greeted lowly, voice deeper than you remembered, huskier with use.

You blinked once.

Twice.

“…Damn,” you whispered, breathless.

His brow arched in amused confusion. “What was that?”

“N-Nothing,” you stammered, cheeks flaring with heat as you suddenly remembered the many, many inappropriate thoughts now stampeding through your mind. “I just—I didn’t—gods, what did Athena feed you?”

That made him grin.

“You missed me, then?” he teased, stepping closer until his shadow fell over you, until you had to tilt your head just to keep eye contact.

You reached out, placing your hand on his chest—partly to confirm he was real, partly because by the gods, you wanted to feel those muscles beneath your palm. “You could say that.” Your mouth felt dry and you were at a loss for words now.

But when he dipped his head to kiss you, slow and warm and newly confident, you could barely remember what restraint meant.

“I have so many things to tell you,” he murmured against your lips.

“Mhm,” you breathed. “Later. Right now, we’re going inside. And you’re going to tell me with your arms and body and everything else.

He blinked.

Then he smirked.

“By the gods,” he chuckled, sweeping you up bridal-style without effort. “I’ve missed you.”

And if anyone asked why the palace doors slammed shut and didn’t open again until dawn…

Well. That was nobody’s business but yours

[totallynotashieldagent]

Is it really you my love?

You turned, the hiss of the metal doors echoed in the air and your eyes widened at what you saw. The man walking out of the ship in full military uniform.

You stared at him, unsure of how to feel. Your hands clenched at your chest, your breath coming in short shallow gasps. Slow enough to make you feel light-headed. Enough to make your chest feel hollow. 

“Is it really you?” You whispered, not daring to say his name. Worried that everything might turn to ash again if you did. Have my prayers been answered?

You couldn’t pinpoint what you were feeling. Joy? Shock? Betrayal? Confusion? Maybe everything. Maybe it was all mixing together. Maybe it was none of it and something even you didn’t know yet. 

Is it really you standing there, or am I dreaming once more?

You eyes followed his every move as his boots thumped the hull, walking closer to you. You reached a tentative hand to his cheek, and he sighed. His eyes closed immediately as he turned into your palm.

“You look different.” Your voice shook as the word tumbled carelessly from your mouth. 

You look different, your eyes look tired.

Your frame is lighter, your smile torn.

Your eyes darted across his features. His eyes didn’t sparkle like they once did. Nor did his smile reach all the way up as he held your hand and kissed the palm. His shoulders were more square. No longer hunching or a carefree posture. No. He was… rigid. Toughened. 

Is it really you, my love? You wanted to ask. You wanted to almost… demand. But, right now. You were fine with the silence. His gloves hand holding yours as he pressed light kissed into your palm.

“Hey Pipsqueak.” Caleb said in a barely audible whisper. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smiled. The tears in your eyes falling with a few blinks. 

“It’s okay.” He finally opened his eyes and met your gaze.

You laughed. The tears of shock turning into joy. You threw your arms around his neck and he gasped, exhaling a soft chuckle too. He held you tightly against himself and it felt like home. Your feet dangled in the air as he stood to his proper full height. “I’m back.” He said softly, inhaling a deep breath, remembering what you smelled like. “I’m back…” He repeated, his voice muffled against your neck as his warm breath tickled your skin. And you remembered why all this mattered to begin with.

. . . Inspired by this reel. . . . Drabble Masterlist

[angelltheninth]

Hi! This is my first time requesting anything ever so I don't even really know how this work- I was wondering if you could do like a part 2 of your Poseidon x reader NSFW fic, with his wounds being healed he would be making due on his promise. Thanks!!

Thank you for requesting! Here's a part 2 where Poseidon is all healed up and ready to... return the favor.

Pairing: Poseidon x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, cunnilingus, breath play, sex in the ocean, creampie, teasing, human!Reader

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: The breath play part just happened, I wasn't even planning on it.

Poseidon wasn't grumpy that often, or as clingy really. Since he got came back to you, injured and hurt in more ways than once he hasn't been able to get enough of you. As soon as Poseidon got better he urged you to come swimming with him. It was an innocent enough request. Not.

The ocean was his domain after all, he was in charge there but every time you were together there he made sure that the sea was calm, clear, not too cold and not too hot, just enough to provide a pleasant chill from the sun. You've had many dates on the beach as well, but Poseidon never stayed on land for too long.

His watery arm wrapped around your middle as he pulled you into the ocean, a wicked grin on his lips, a matching one gracing yours. "Can't be patient? You're a God, you should have better self control."

"Perhaps so, but I've been on the receiving end of things for a while. Now that I'm fully healed I would like to return the favor. Sound fair?" Poseidon was already disappearing under the surface as your laughed. You saw him smiling at you before he swam closer, his hands spreading your legs. "Such a pretty treasure I found down here." His lips pressed against your clit, warming it up in the cool water, tongue pressing and prodding.

Your hands grabbed at him, fisting into his silky black hair to have something to brace against, something to help you grind against his face better. "This isn't fair. You're not… you're teasing."

He didn't respond, not wanting to move his mouth from you. But as an act of mercy he slipped a finger in, no trouble at all, and let it stay there, massaged by your inner walls. His tongue rolled and circled around your clit, making patterns, going from slow to fast and then slow again, as unpredictable as the ocean itself.

"Not enough. You're not doing enough, I can't… I need… I want your cock. I- ah!" You felt his sharp teeth graze your clit and his hand wrap tighter around you, almost circling around you entirely. You were on the verge of an orgasm, so close, but he didn't fuck you how he knew he needed to. As if that wasn't enough he waited just until you were about to say something and then pulled you under.

For a split second you though you were gonna get a mouthful of water only to taste yourself on your tongue, not the salt of the ocean.

He silenced the gasp you made when he pushed his cock balls deep into you, moving mercilessly in and out. His lips never left yours as he fucked his thick, hard cock in and out of your pussy, his speed not at all slowed by the ocean. You wrapped your arms around his neck and shoulders, wanting him closer, needing him almost as much as you needed air.

But he didn't let you go, he kept fucking you even as your lungs burned, your moans getting higher and higher, faster. Your nails raked across his skin as your pussy clenched around him, sucking him in deeper, barely willing to let him pull out. Poseidon surfaced and pulled back from the kiss just in time to hear you come undone around his cock.

"Your voice is too pretty to be held back, my pretty seashell." He pushed you down on his cock, it twitched and pulsed inside you, coating your insides with his seed, reacting to your moans.. "Missed holding you like this, fucking you like this."

You pulled him closer, lips ghosting over his neck, "I missed this too." You smiled, breathless and content. "The drowning was… new…"

"But good right? Your pussy got so tight when you got desperate. But you know I'd never let you get hurt right?" Poseidon kissed you again and pulled you on top of him as he floated in the surface, the waves rocking you back and forth, almost like a lullaby.

"I know, of course I do. That was exciting." You ran your hands through his wet hair as you smiled at him and relaxed on top of him. "You're rough sometimes, but I know you cherish me. And in turn I worship you, my favorite God." Somewhere in the distance waves crashed against the shore in the rhythm of what you imagined would be Poseidon's heartbeat in that peaceful moment.

[mannythemunchkin]

ANOTHER HERMES DRABBLE

🔞18+ MDNI🔞

TAGS: teasing, light praise kink, handjob, whining and whimpering Hermes, power bottom(I think?), AFAB!Reader, fem!Reader x Hermes, porn without plot, no beta we die like the crew, overstimulation, begging and pleading, Hermes is whipped.

WORD COUNT: 919

A/N: These demons need to be vanquished, and that can only be done by writing them down. Have some more Hermes filth, lovelies.

ART BY XIMENA NATZEL

“Darling, please...” Hermes whined needily. You were straddling his lap, your fingers threading through his mussed hair, occasionally scratching his scalp lightly, while trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses and gentle love bites all over his collarbone, neck and shoulders. You had been teasing him for almost an hour, your lips and hands never touching where he needed them the most. You wouldn't even deign him a kiss. You had him squirming and writhing beneath you on your couch. Hermes, God of oh so many things, messenger of the Greek Gods, was putty in your hands. A soft hum sounded from you as you slid a hand down to his chest, and you felt the God tense underneath your feather-light touch as you began tracing idle patterns on his pecs and sternum.

“Please… what, baby?” You muttered against the column of his neck. You grabbed the hair at his neck and tugged his head back slightly, earning a breathless moan from him. Hermes eagerly tilted his head back at your tug, desperate for more of your ministrations. He had his hands behind his back, not tied up or anything, just tugged back there between himself and the couch, at your request, and who was he to not give what his lover wanted. It was taking every ounce of restraint and strength in him to not just grab you and pound you into the couch, but you had asked if you could take control for a bit, and oh, was he absolutely loving it. His entire body felt like it was charged with electricity, every little touch you did made his over-sensitized nerves go haywire, sending so many shivers and shudders through him he was practically vibrating.

As Hermes opened his mouth to response, to plead for you to touch him where he wanted, no, needed you the most, you leaned on close and took his lower lip between your teeth, and all that left him was a high pitched whine as he chased your mouth when you leaned back once more. “Please, I need more. I'm aching, darling…” his voice was strained and breathless. You had him pleading, begging, for more. For anything that'd relieve the almost painful ache between his legs. He looked up at you with big, pleasure hazed eyes, his silvery irises almost glowing with raw need and desire. A sweet, wicked smile curved your lips, and you cooed in a slight mocking tone as your hand on his chest began roaming his toned torso, your fingertips brushing ever-so-lightly over his nipples. Hermes sucked in a breath, and for the first time since you began, his hips involuntarily bucked up against your core, eliciting a quiet moan from you and a gravelly groan from himself.

You tutted disapprovingly, tightening your grip in his hair to yank his head back further. The hand you had on his chest moved downwards, your nails scraping lightly over his toned chest and abs before your fingertips teasingly traced the hem of his underwear. “You want it down here? Want me to touch you, give you what you need?” Hermes let out a noise that sounded like a mix of a whimper and a groan, and he nodded eagerly. “Please.”

“Hmm… I guess I'll reward you. You've been so good the whole time. Such a good boy~” You praised him, and your words were rewarded with a string of small whines and whimpers as he kept nodding, his brain short-circuiting from even the slightest of praise. He bucked his hips again, this time deliberately, and he sent you a pleading look. Hermes looked absolutely ravished. His cheeks, neck and chest were all flushed a dark pink, his lips parted while his breath came out in ragged pants, and his eyes were glazed over. You swallowed, and gave him a small nod before shimmying slightly back on his lap to give yourself room to work. You threaded your fingers through his hair, the gesture gentle and sweet, while your other hand tugged his underwear down, freeing his twitching cock from its confines.

You directed your eyes to his cock, your nimble fingers wrapping around it before giving him a trying stroke. The moan that escaped Hermes at the simple flick of your wrist was the most erotic sound you had ever heard, and it was music to your ears. You stroked him again, this time pressing the pad of your thumb down on the slit, smearing the hefty amount of precum that had been leaking out all over the blunt tip, and Hermes let out what sounded like a string of curses in ancient Greek. His cock twitched in your hand, and you raised an eyebrow, a small grin tugging at your lips, and you began stroking him faster and harder. It took all but five or six strokes before a desperate cry rumbled in Hermes’ chest, and he came all over his stomach and your hand, but you didn't stop. Your hand moved at a slightly slower pace, but you kept stroking him, and you had him shuddering beneath your ministrations as pulses of hot cum shot out of his twitching cock.

You were just about to let go of him, when suddenly your world turned around, and you found yourself with your face pressed into the couch cushions and your ass in the air. Hermes positioned himself behind you, and he leaned down, covering your body with his much bigger one, and he groaned quietly next to your ear.

“My turn, darling~”

[kingbyx]

Saw some Epic warrior!Penelope aus where our favorite girl ends up at war in Odys place and had to throw my own au in there

When the ships of Ithaca are called to war, Odysseus by some horrible coincidence (or perhaps something more?) falls terribly sick. Physicians are certain he’ll pull through, he’s young, he’s healthy, he’s blessed by gods, they say, he has a newborn son to raise, and kingdom to protect, he has so much to live for. They say he will be better, but they cannot say when.

It has been weeks, and Agamemnon demands his presence. They don’t want to leave without the clever, Athena blessed king of Ithaca.

Penelope, still weak from childbirth, grieving for a husband she hasn’t yet lost, dresses in her loves clothes and sails off to war with 600 men. Eurylochus and Polites, Odysseus’s best friend and brother in law, are the only ones to notice.

Penelope had long trained with Odysseus, he believed she needed to be able to fight as well as he could, if not better, to assure she was safe. “I’ll always protect you” he always said “but if that terrible time comes that I am unable, I need you to be able to protect yourself as I would.” She had laughed and said she would kill any who dare attack her or her love.

Now she put those skills to use, ten years of war, pretending to be Odysseus.

Of course, her own crew realized soon enough. Her disguise did not hold up in such close quarters. With the support of her closest allies, they eventually (though some reluctantly) turned to her aid. Ensuring that, for all the years they fought Troy, she was never found out.

Athena guided her hand, she would joke to her crew after every battle she won, but the owl at the edge of her vision was no illusion.

Now, after her Trojan Horse succeeded, she sails towards home, dreading what she will find despite her joy at the idea of seeing her love again

Back in Ithaca, Penelope has no need to worry for her husbands loyalty.

Raising his son in a kingdom missing all its best soldiers, oddyseus worries constantly for his wife. Every day, hundreds of men and women invade his castle, and he cannot get them to leave. The last dregs of illness still haunt his body, and he cannot fight them all.

They ask him to marry them, to marry their daughters (most of which are far, far too young. Many no older than Telemachus)

He wants only to sail off, build a ship of whatever materials they have left and run away with his son to find his mother. He cannot, his kingdom still needs a ruler.

He misses Penelope, Polites, Eurylochus, Elopenor, Perimedes. Even Athena seems to have disappeared.