#Epic Drabble

[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 famous 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.

[that-one-weeb-buts-its-the-main]

Hi mate, how’ve you been? I was wondering if I could request a little mandrake x femme reader drabble, if you don’t mind? I’ve been scrolling through the epic tag aimlessly over the weekend cuz I was on vacation and remembered that you had done some requests yourself! Oh and thx sm for your support with my own stuff! <3

Wounds| Mandrake

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Reader: Female Reader| Mandrake x reader

Notes: Sorry for the lack of fics. I've been working so much, tbh It's stupid...

Warnings: mentions of wounds

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"You can't come in here- The king!-!" A gaurd shouted.

"Move! Or you'll never have kids again!" Y/n ordeded dress hiked up in her hands and on a tyrant.

He was quick to move Y/n moving forward. The one guard was luckily he was given mercy by her.

"Mandrake!" She shouted, causing the forest to flinch.

"Keep her out of here." Mandrake ordered his gaurds lazily, slumped over in his throne: beaten, cuts and brusies freshly fixed up.

The gaurds looked at each other and then separated themselves to give Y/n a pathway.

"You're dead!" Y/n contuined to rage.

Walking past the two gaurds. He only sighed, hand covering his face, his elbow supporting his upper body weight.

"What is your problem!? Are you serious!?" Y/n shouted.

"Please give me some peace and quiet!" He ordeded.

A big mistake; she was already mad, now she was furious.

"Peace and Quiet!? You want peace and quiet!?" Y/n argued, her nostrils flaring in anger: "I tried to give you peace and quiet! The whole Kingdom! But you and that Leafman idiot commander can't keep your hands off each other!"

"Do not word it that way-"

"What?! Honesty tick you off now?!" Y/n snapped. He glanced at her, and she started her pacing: "I'll have to meet with Queen Tara again! You and Ronin need to either back off or get married to one another! I already solved the border issue and now!-"

Her voice raged on a she turned to look at him, her voice falling to silence. Mandrake looked beat up, badly beat up. For only a moment she argued with herself; "I..." he started, "know you have been working hard, for peace...thank you,"

Y/n sighed, walking her way over; up the small steps to his throne, she kneeled at the base of his throen, he was slumped over making it easier for her to get a better look at his face, he hiding brusies under the hand which covered his face.

"Let me see." She spoke softly.

"I'm fine-"

Mandrake paused as she pushed his hand away softly, she frowning at the bruise forming under his eye.

"Have you..." Y/n started, reaching out to touch his face; his flinching, "so you haven't..."

Y/n looked back and called for a gaurd: "Get my medical equipment please, it's in my room," She told.

"Yes, my Queen." He responded and rushed off to do as ordered.

She turned around back to him as she cupped his cheek: he leaned into it: "What happened," y/n asked softly.

"It seems you know the answer to that." Mandrake answered. He sounded just as exhausted as he looked.

"My queen."

Y/n turned her head a gaurd there with her bag, "Thank you." She spoke taking it from him.

Y/n was quick to open the bag and look through her bottles of Tonics. She picking one out.

"What does that have in it?"

"Root-"

"Pine root?"

"Mhm-"

"No."

"I know it stings but it heals the best-"

Y/n put some on some cotton she had in another glass, and lifted her hand up to clean his wounds. Yet he blocked her.

"Mandrake-"

"No-"

"It's going to get infected if I don't clean it." Y/n argued.

"It stings-"

"Maybe you shouldn't of gone into a fight then."

He winced as she blotted his face: he hissing as she cleaned his wounds.

"I know. Im sorry." Y/n answered, quick to finish and pull away: "Where else?"

"Surely you don't think I'm going to undress for you in front of my own men." He teased; his eyes switching sides to look her way.

"If I asked?" She asked; sat all pretty on the backs of her feet, looking at him with the wish only to help.

"no." Mandrake answered.

"Damn it." Y/n cursed.

"You know that doesn't work on me," Was his response, she getting her bag back together, closing it up as she stood.

"That's not what you said a night ago." She snarked back, a smile across her face.

The guards standing attention at the entry way tried to hold it together.

"Damn sounds like Im getting more action than the boss?" A third grumbled to her coulleges.

"What was that!?" Mandrake shouted.

"Nothing, sir!" They were quick to answer.

"Be nice to the kids." Y/n protested, holding her hand out, "come on love, lets go and finsih patching you up."

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Odysseus all places he would fuck when 🙏🙏/silly

A/n: Me vibrating with excitement because I have been waiting for this.

Odysseus’ Favorite Places He and His Wife Have Had Sex

(Because Even the Cunning King of Ithaca Has Weaknesses… and His Wife Is the Greatest of Them All.)

From the moment Odysseus took you as his wife, you knew patience would be required. He was a man of sharp wit, endless charm, and the kind of arrogance that came naturally to someone favored by the gods.

But beneath all of that?

He was devoted. Fiercely. Unrelentingly.

To Ithaca. To his people.

And most of all—to you.

And gods help him, he could never keep his hands off you.

1. Your Wedding Night – The First Time He Claimed You As His Own

Odysseus had never believed in fate.

He had always believed in cleverness, in shaping his own destiny, in finding the path no one else could see.

But then he met you.

And suddenly, fate didn’t seem so ridiculous after all.

On the night of your wedding, after the celebration had faded, after the guests had drunk themselves into contented sleep, he had taken your hand and led you to his chambers.

And for the first time—Odysseus, the man who always had a plan, had no idea what he was doing.

Not when it came to you.

Because you were different.

You were his.

And as he undressed you—slowly, reverently, as if he were unwrapping the most sacred of treasures—he realized he had never wanted anything more in his life.

The first time he made love to you, it was slow. Deep. A vow in the form of touch.

Your fingers had tangled in his hair, your breaths had mingled between kisses, and the moment you gasped his name—he was gone.

Gone for you. Gone forever.

And in that moment, he knew—

No matter what war, what storm, what trial the gods threw at him… he would always find his way back to you.

2. The Olive Grove – Where He Learned to Worship You With More Than Words

Odysseus was not a simple man.

But his love for you?

That was simple.

It was in the way he reached for you without thinking. The way he let his fingers drift along your skin, even in the presence of others. The way he always returned to your arms after a long day, as if the weight of ruling Ithaca meant nothing once he was touching you.

And sometimes, his love for you turned into something he could not control.

Like the evening he found you walking alone in the olive groves, your hands skimming the silver-green leaves, your dress flowing around you like some kind of divine vision.

You had turned to him with a teasing smile, eyes full of mischief.

“Are you following me, my love?”

Odysseus had not even bothered to deny it.

You had expected a witty remark. A playful response.

Instead, he had kissed you.

Hard.

You had barely had a moment to gasp before he pressed you against the trunk of an ancient olive tree, his lips tracing the line of your throat, his hands pushing aside the soft fabric of your gown.

“We shouldn’t,” you had whispered breathlessly, but your arms had already wrapped around him, pulling him closer.

Odysseus had laughed against your skin.

“You knew what would happen the moment you smiled at me like that.”

And then he had worshiped you, right there, beneath the trees that had stood for centuries.

The gods had surely been watching.

And Odysseus hadn’t cared, because feeling you come undone by a few thrusts was everything.

3. The Palace Balcony – When He Needed to Prove You Were Still His

Odysseus was not a jealous man.

But he was possessive.

You were his. His wife. His queen. His breath and his heart and his home.

So when a visiting noble looked at you too long, let his compliments drip too sweetly into conversation—

Odysseus had remained calm.

Outwardly.

But later that night, as he pulled you onto the stone balcony that overlooked the sea, his hands gripping your waist with something close to desperation, you had known.

He needed to remind you.

Remind himself.

That you belonged to him as much as he belonged to you.

His kisses had been rougher that night, his hands pulling at your clothes with less patience than usual.

And when he took you—pushed against the balcony railing, the night wind cool against your fevered skin, his name gasped between your parted lips.

He made sure you felt him everywhere.

Made sure you knew that no man could ever touch you the way he did.

The sea had stretched endlessly beyond the cliffs.

But all he had cared about was you.

4. The Battlefield Tent – The Night Before War Took Him Away

War had always been Odysseus’ curse.

He had never wanted it. Never craved it the way Ares did.

But it had come for him anyway.

And the night before he sailed to Troy, before ten years of war would steal him away from you, he had needed you.

Needed to remember the way you felt beneath him, the way your body fit against his, the way you whispered his name like it was both a prayer and a command.

So that night, in the privacy of his tent, with only the flickering oil lamps casting shadows against the canvas—

Odysseus had made love to you like a dying man reaching for his final taste of paradise.

And when it was over, when your fingers traced the muscles of his back, when your lips pressed against his shoulder in silent understanding, he had promised—

“I will return to you.”

Because no war, no gods, no storm could keep him from you.

And he had kept that promise.

Even if it had taken him twenty years to do it.

And his favorite Places you two have had sex after his return home.

(Because After Twenty Years, the King of Ithaca Had A Lot of Time to Make Up For.)

Odysseus had dreamed of this.

For twenty long years.

Through war, through storms, through gods and monsters—he had clung to the memory of you.

But memories had never been enough.

Not when he had spent nights reaching for you, only to find empty air.

Not when he had whispered your name into the wind, hoping the gods would carry it back to you.

But now?

Now, he was home.

And he was never letting you go again.

1. The Marriage Bed – Where He Needed You First

He had built this bed.

With his own hands. With his own sweat. A piece of himself woven into every fiber of it.

And for twenty years, it had remained untouched.

Just as you had.

So it was only fitting that the first place he took you again was the same place he had last held you.

That night, it was slow.

It was gentle.

Not because he did not burn for you, but because he needed to savor it.

Needed to map your body with his hands, his lips, his breath, relearning every curve, every sound, every way you responded to him.

Needed to feel you, flesh and warmth and devotion, to remind himself that this was real.

That he was real.

That he had made it back to you.

You had gasped his name between kisses. Had tangled your fingers into his hair, pulled him closer, as if afraid he would vanish again.

He had whispered promises against your skin—ones that had no need for words.

And when you had come undone beneath him, when your breath had hitched and your body had trembled

He had followed, his hands gripping your waist, his forehead pressing against yours as if grounding himself in the very thing he had fought for.

You.

Always you.

He may have been covered in blood but that did not matter to you because your husband was home.

2. The Throne Room – Where He Took You as His Queen

The suitors were dead.

Their blood had been washed away. Their bodies dragged from the palace.

And yet—Odysseus still felt their presence.

Still felt their lingering trespass in his home, in the halls that had belonged to him and him alone.

Most of all, they had dared to exist near you.

And that?

That, he could not abide.

So as you stood in the throne room that evening, watching the last traces of war fade from your home, he came to you.

“You are mine,” he murmured against your ear, voice dark, rough, full of something deep and primal.

You shivered beneath his touch, but you did not stop him.

Because you understood.

Odysseus had reclaimed his throne. Now, he needed to reclaim you.

There, against the very seat of his power—he pressed you against the throne and took you as his queen.

It was not gentle.

It was not patient.

It was desperate, possessive, a silent declaration that you belonged to no one else.

That no man—mortal or god—could ever take you from him.

Your nails raked down his back. Your lips bruised against his.

And when he finally collapsed against you, breath ragged, his arms trembling around you—

He knew.

He had conquered many things.

But you would always be his greatest victory.

3. The Shoreline – Where He Marked You Beneath the Stars

The sea had tried to keep him from you.

For ten years, Poseidon had raged, had thrown him to the mercy of the tides, had cursed him with loss after loss.

So Odysseus found it only fitting that he take you beneath the very stars that had guided him home.

You had been walking along the shoreline, barefoot, your dress flowing around you in the wind, looking like something out of a dream.

Odysseus had been watching.

Always watching.

He had waited long enough.

He had come up behind you, his hands sliding along your waist, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

And when you had leaned into him, sighing softly—

That was it.

He had guided you down onto the soft sand, his body covering yours, his mouth sealing away whatever protest you might have given.

And there, beneath the endless sky, with the waves lapping at the shore—

He made love to you.

Your back against the earth, his hands gripping your thighs, your hips, keeping you steady as he drove into you.

The rhythm of the ocean matching the rhythm of his thrusts—

The sea could have raged. The gods could have watched.

Slow at first, teasing, making you beg—

And then faster, rougher, until all you could do was cry out his name.

And when it was over, when your bodies were spent, tangled together in the warm sand—

Odysseus didn’t care.

Because for the first time in twenty years, he was exactly where he was meant to be.

With you

He had kissed your forehead, chuckling softly, murmuring, “I should bring you here more often.”

And he had..

4. The Olive Grove – Where He Worshiped You Again

Odysseus had taken you here before.

Years ago, before war and fate had stolen him away, he had pressed you against these very trees, whispered filthy promises against your skin, laughed as he undid you beneath the cover of green leaves.

It was only fair that he do it again.

Only this time—it was different.

Because now, there was no guarantee of tomorrow.

Now, he knew what it was to lose you.

So when he took you there again, it was reverent.

It was not rushed.

It was Odysseus, pressing worship into your skin, hands memorizing every inch of you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

He had groaned your name against your throat, had kissed you until your knees buckled, had held you up as he sank into you, slow and deep and unyielding.

And when you had whispered his name, breathless, undone.

He had answered with a vow.

“I will never leave you again.”

5:The Throne Room (again) Because He Likes to Remind You That He Is King

Odysseus is a man of power, a man of command.

And some nights, he enjoys reminding you exactly who he is.

The first time had been unplanned.

You had been sitting on his throne, draped in his cloak, waiting for him.

When he walked in, his gaze darkened instantly.

“You look far too comfortable there,” he had murmured, stepping closer, his voice rich with heat and something dangerous.

And before you could tease him back, before you could move.

He was on you.

His hands were gripping your thighs, pulling you forward, making you gasp.

His mouth was hot against your neck, against your collarbone, against the swell of your breasts—

And then, he was inside you, pressing you down into the throne, moving deep and unrelenting.

His lips brushed your ear, whispering, “You may sit upon my throne, but I will always rule you.”

And the moment you moaned at his words, tightening around him, trembling beneath him—

He had growled in approval, claiming you again and again.

Afterward, when you were panting against his chest, your body boneless, your lips swollen, tremors still hitting you.

He had leaned back, smirking. “Perhaps I should let you sit on my throne more often."

6. The Bedchamber – Where He Loved You As a Husband, Not a King

Odysseus was a king.

A warrior. A tactician. A man who had fought against fate and won.

But here, in your arms, he was none of those things.

He was just a man.

Just yours.

This was the last place.

The one that mattered most.

Because here, it was not about reclaiming or proving or marking.

It was just about loving.

And gods, he loved you.

So when he pulled you into his arms that night, pressing you into the softest of linens, tangling himself with you beneath the warm glow of the fire—

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t devour.

Didn’t conquer.

He just loved you.

For every night he had missed.

For every kiss he had been denied.

For every whispered promise he had wanted to give but couldn’t.

And when he finally collapsed beside you, arms still wrapped around you, your heartbeat steady against his chest.

For the first time in twenty years, Odysseus felt at peace.

Because he was finally, finally home.

[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

[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.

[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

[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.

[theproverbialpen]

How would your character say “I love you” without using those words? (EPIC: Poseidon Drabble)

My friends and I just wrapped a session of a creative writing exercise where we only have 5 minutes to write for a prompt and I ended up writing some really sappy shit centered around my EPIC fic that I was actually pretty proud of :) No cut this time cause it's pretty short:

It was quiet offerings left on the shore. It was the starfish woven into every design. It was the best fruits from her market haul left on the altar by her gorgeous tapestry, warmed by the hearth. 

It was shy glances and small smiles. It was epithet after epithet, each one more obscure than the last. It was the way she cradled the shell close to her as she drifted off to sleep.

It was the gentle patterns she would trace into his chest after they had lain together, whether going at it like fervent animals or making love like it was her last day. It was the way she would sing to him, not with the seductive siren song he so loved, but with her voice. Her high notes and stunning vibrato. It was all the things that were uniquely her, things that she would show no one else—mortal and divine alike.

She would never say she loved him. Not in that way. It was something that bordered far too close to sacrilege, to the hubris so frowned upon by mankind and their fragile cities of stone and prose. She would never say something so audacious, despite her audacity in every other facet of her fleeting yet memorable life.

But Poseidon knew. He knew when she curled into his side, when they floated amongst his domain together, and when they bantered for hours just to enjoy each other’s company.

His little siren would never say that she loved him. But in a thousand ways and more, she showed him the depth of her adoration and then some.

((Line divider made by @plum98))

[ineedtherapydesperately]

I was listening to the Cyclops saga and more specifically My Goodbye and like tell me why is that song so Red and Queen of Hearts coded?? like a Red and Queen of Hearts coming of age kinda scenario like imagine QoH is all demeaning and condescending towards Red and then Red just snaps?? straight up loses her shit?? like hear me out it's so them

like this is absolutely something QoH would say bsffr especially considering the books as well and girlie is here like I raised you to be the Princess of Hearts?? blah blah we're meant to be evil rulers together in the future for the sake of Wonderland

then the lecture would absolutely turn into a 'why are you such a disappointment' rant and then QoH goes on a whole ass tirade against Red again like

and Red just snaps, thinking about her friends like Chester and Ace, thinking about what QoH did to them and thinking about how she was so utterly powerless against her own mother

so she screams, she yells, she cuts QoH out of her life for good because she's so SICK of her mother constantly telling her what to do, how to act, who to kill. she's so sick of living her life under some Queen, ruled by some Queen

but ofc QoH has to slip in her own little off with their heads reference but surprisingly doesn't put up too much of a fight?? like she just lets Red walk out, which surprises Red until she realises that it's a sick ploy because who can Red turn to now?? she just alienated the RULER of Wonderland, their absolute Queen, their tyrant but Red can't find it in herself to care because she's finally free of her mother

and Red being Red can't resist one last quip at her mother before she leaves the court for the final time, packing her bags and headed off to wherever (probably Chloe) and leaves QoH to wallow in this parting shot because Red was right?? she's all alone?? first, Ella left her, and now her daughter and she's all alone??

idk this song got me thinking things but yeah Red is so Odysseus coded and QoH is so Athena coded

[witless-winion1]

Shouldering the shroud

Penelope’s eyes hurt, and it was no wonder why. 

Her nimble fingers unwound another few threads of the shroud, the color distorted in the candlelight. Judging by the amount she had undone, it should be midnight, but from how slow she had been working, it was probably closer to one or two in the morning. 

Her head pounded faintly, and if she could have, she would call a maid or two in, show them the ropes, and collapse into her wedding bed for a light coma while they did the work. But she couldn’t; recently some of the royal staff had been sleeping with the suitors, thinking along the same lines- that she should give up on her Odysseus coming home, choose a new husband, watch Ithaca go to ruins under the bastard’s reign. And if she couldn’t trust them to keep their mouths shut about her scheme, then she would have to do this alone. 

All this, to keep those salivating pigs at bay. 

She wished Odysseus were here. Even if only for a moment, to kiss her head and whisper a few words of encouragement, tell her he was almost home. Even if only for an hour, to sit and listen to her rant about these ‘guests’ taking up space and making trouble, messing with their son, drinking and shouting and leering at her every slim chance they got. Even if only for a night, to hold her in their wedding bed, his warm arms wrapped around her, the same hands that had carved and built their bed and their palace tracing over her face and her body, making sure she knew without a doubt that he loved her, that he would be back any day now, that he missed her and grieved their time spent apart. 

And then she would awaken in the cruel light of Helios’ chariot, and he would be whisked away again, far off to wherever he was right now. 

Her fingers tangled in the strings, her distraction making itself known, and she sighed. 

All this, to buy him time. 

Have patience, Penelope. 

She freed her fingers and refocused on her task. Lately, it had felt like she was unweaving her own heart every night. And the exhaustion didn’t help; she was not as young as she once was, and her body begged her to let it sleep, but she couldn’t stop now, she hadn’t done enough. But her eyes were drooping, and her head ached like that of a regretful drunk’s. She almost snorted, thinking herself in the suitor’s sandals for a brief moment. 

Her mind wandered to Telemachus. His black eye was healing well after that fight with one of the suitors last week. He was like his father in that regard; he always told her the wound he’d obtained from the magical boar had healed within days, and Athena herself had confirmed it. 

She both loved and hated all the ways her son was so much like her husband. Quite a bit of her coloring (and height) was hers. But the way he looked around as he walked, his shining eyes taking everything in…it was Odysseus with her, from wherever he was right now. All that she knew lived and breathed of her husband. She still remembered the first time she’d noticed that sparkle of intelligence in his eyes, when he’d said one of his first words. 

“Mmmamgbaaa..” her son mumbled, his chubby hands reaching up to her. He’d wiggled out of his swaddling cloths again; off course. 

“Mama, can you say that? Ma-ma,” Penelope encouraged softly, swaying her weight from one foot to the other. “Mama.”

“M..ma-m, Ma-ma,” Telemachus babbled, and his feet kicked, giggling happily in response to Penelope’s gasp and smile. “Ma-ma! Mama!”

“Mom?”

Penelope’s eyes snapped open as she gasped and shot up, her forehead flying back from the loom to snap towards the chambers’ doorway. Her hand reached for the dagger she kept on her table, she thought she’d locked the door, had the suitors come to confirm the rumors of their grumbled threats-?

She tripped over her stool as she tried to adjust her stance to prepare, stumbling back and falling-

-until a slender arm caught her around her back. “Mom!”

She blinked, her heart hammering. 

It was Telemachus. Her son. Not some shadowy monster of a man come to ruin her. 

She shuddered as he helped her regain her balance, holding onto his arms, feeling his warmth. 

“Mom, are you alright?” Telemachus murmured, eyeing the dagger clutched in her hand. “I’m sorry I startled you.” 

She sighed, trying to tell her heart to calm itself. “Yes, I’m fine…thank you, honey.” She squeezed his arm briefly. She didn’t have to explain her fear or reaction; they both understood why she kept a dagger close and her nerves on high alert, even at night. Especially at night. 

Her gaze strayed to the still-mostly-woven shroud, and she couldn’t help the slump of her shoulders or the short sigh that escaped her lips. 

“You should rest, Mom.” Telemachus looked over her, no doubt noticing his mother’s dark circles and exhaustion. 

Penelope shook her head. “I can’t. I need to finish this. If I leave it now, I’ll be able to finish it tomorrow. And then I’ll need to chose a suitor to wear the crown.” A grimace flickered over Telemacus’ face, and Penelope knew she wore a similar one. 

“…is there a way I can help?” Telemachus stepped closer to the loom. “Surely unweaving this is not so complicated that I can’t do it, and you can get some rest?”

Penelope hesitated. She couldn’t explain her desire to shoulder this burden alone, but either way, Telemachus was under enough pressure already. 

“Mom, please. The kingdom needs their queen in full health. And you need your strength.” Telemachus looked at her, his face softening to resemble Argos’ famous puppy eyes.  

He’s right…

“…alright. I’ll show you.” Penelope stepped around him, set the dagger aside once more, and sat down, her fingers brushing the threads as she started unweaving them. Her hands held the faintest tremble from exhaustion, and she knew Telemachus noticed, but he said nothing; only nodded as she pointed out the specifics of what to do. 

“Okay. I can take over from here.” He nodded, and gestured for her to stand from the stool. Her behind and back ached something fierce as she slowly obliged. He took her place, his sturdier, younger fingers grasping the threads. His touch was clumsy and inexperienced. But it would do, she thought as he looked up to smile at her. 

“Get some rest, Mom. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Penelope just took in his face for a moment, and for a flash she could see Odysseus, taking a basket of olives from her while she waddled around the castle, her energy sapped by the baby in her womb. His grin as he kissed her cheek and scolded her gently to rest, that she needed her strength for the coming days. 

She definitely needed her strength for the coming days. She could feel it. 

“…thank you, Telemachus.” She bent over slightly and kissed her son’s cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

[flowers-in-your-basement]

(This is in some post finale thing where they don’t die)

“I’ve wanted to fuck you since I was a kid- since you were a kid, basically” this is the truth brought out of Dean, in their bed at the bunker, after years of cajoling.

“Why didn’t you?” Sam, lying in beside him in the bed, arms pressing his pecs together like a girls tits.

“You didn’t want me then”

“I still would have let you”

“Well- yeah but-“

“It’s not like I would mind” Sam’s eyes shift. Hiding something maybe, or trying to lie.

“You should have” Dean has to know. “Why wouldn’t you have cared, if I did that to you?”

“It’s not like it would be the first time that happened to me, even when I was a kid”

Christ, Sam never told him this, already in his mid 40s, past a life of pain, of denial, of lucifers thousand years of ice-cold hands.

“When you were what, ten? Twelve? Who fucked you then”

“I thought you knew, what azazel would do to check up on me”

“Yeah well I knew that he would possess some bitches to befriend you on the playground, but who-?”

“Sometimes he would possess dad, too”

[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.

[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~”

[xfilesinamajor]

Trapped

Same isn’t all that far from Ithaca. Close enough that on a clear day, if she sits on the roof of the palace and squints really hard, she can see a dark smudge on the horizon that she knows is home.

It’s still “home” in her mind, even after twelve years of life on a different island, in a different palace, with a different family. That’s probably why Same doesn’t feel like home, even though Euenus and Oitane have made every effort to include her and make her feel welcome in their home. It’s still their home. Euenus still rules Same, and will continue to do so until Eurylochus returns or Leotychides grows to manhood. And Ctimene—she’s trapped in the middle, raising the future king of this place that isn’t her home.

If the war had never come—if Eurylochus hadn’t left so soon after the wedding—if the war hadn’t been so far—if it hadn’t gone on for so painfully long—then things would be different. Her husband would have been her with her to form memories in this palace, to hold her in the cold, unfamiliar bed, to stand by her and help her raise their son. He doesn’t even know he has a son, she hadn’t known herself until weeks after the ships for Troy departed.

He doesn’t know. Ctimene smiles bitterly into the bright sunshine. She’s still thinking of him as if he’s alive, when chances are very good that he isn’t. Other soldiers have returned to their homes over the past two years, most of them in the first few months. She knows the war is over, and the Odysseus survived it. Her parents received word from Menelaos about that, and they had passed the message on to her. Ithaca is a sizeable island, and Odysseus had distinguished himself as a general in the war.

But no one had bothered to send a message about Eurylochus of Same.

Even if he did survive the war, no one from any of their islands has returned home. It’s very likely they all drowned. Mother never gave up hope that they were still coming, that they had only been delayed…she had died believing that any day now, Odysseus would come walking through the doors.

Ctimene was there when she passed. They knew she was failing, and Eumaeus had arrived in a ship to escort her home in time to say her goodbyes. Leotychides had joined her, initially sitting seriously and quietly at her side, looking at her with wide, frightened eyes when his grandmother touched his face with her cold hands and called him Telemachus.

Telemachus, though only older by a year, somehow knew just what to do, and he’d led his cousin off to play a game. Mother had slipped away before they returned. She’d died looking beyond Ctimene and Eumaeus to the doors behind them, telling them calmly and softly that she wasn’t going to the Underworld just yet, she had to wait for Odysseus.

At least she had still died with hope. Father seemed to have lost all hope after that, retreating to the kingdom’s farmlands and forsaking the palace. To Ctimene, it was as though she lost both her parents within the span of only a week. Only Eumaeus, Penelope, and young Telemachus remained of her family.

Poor Penelope. Ctimene doesn’t envy her position these days, even if she has brought the troubles on herself. With Odysseus presumed dead, Ithaca is ready for a new king. And Penelope, lovely as she is, would have no shortage of suitors even were she not Queen. But like Mother, she refuses to accept the loss and move on. As long as she insists her husband is alive, Telemachus cannot become king, and she cannot remarry. Yet she can’t stop men from trying to court her, and already last Ctimene heard there are at least a dozen of them on her doorstep.

At least as long as Euenus lives and rules, no one dares to bother Ctimene or Leotychides. They are left to age and grow in relative peace, in this place that isn’t her home. She ought to be grateful for that.

And she is. She is grateful. Most of the time.

Before Eurylochus, she’d known the touch of no man. She had longed for it, though, and in the few precious weeks they had together, she had come to enjoy it more completely than she could have imagined. Then abruptly that was taken from her, and for twelve years she has been longing for it again. She loves her son, adores watching him grow into a tall and awkward young man, treasures his companionship. But there are other types of companionship she desires.

If Eurylochus will never return, she wants someone to warm her bed, hold her close, share the joys and sorrows of her heart. To find someone who will love her after Leotychides is grown, so she won’t someday find herself old and alone on this island which isn’t her home. She doesn’t want to be lonely forever. She is loath to die like Mother, waiting for someone who isn’t coming back. Twelve years is so long, after so short a time together.

And yet while she is on Same, under the roof of Eurylochus’ parents, the decision is not hers. Until they admit he is dead, she cannot dishonor the family by taking a new lover. She will not open herself up to the sort of slander that such a rash act would bring. She is Ctimene of Ithaca, daughter of Laertes, and she is no whore.

She lies back on the roof, melting into the heat of the sun-baked tiles, and closes her eyes. In her mind, she tries to conjure up Eurylochus’ face. It’s not difficult—Leotychides looks so much like him. In fact, she remembers Eurylochus at eleven years old. After the harvest every year, and in the spring, he and the children from other surrounding islands would come to Ithaca. Mother and Father would throw a feast and listen the ideas and requests of all the smaller kingdoms. He was the one who taught her how to climb trees. After years of tagging after Odysseus and Eumaeus and begging for their aid, this tall, dark boy had taken the time to patiently show her where to put her feet and instructed her on how to pull herself up to the lowest branch. Once she’d made it that far, she’d caught on quickly. Climbing came as easily as her to breathing now. It was why this roof had become one of her favorite places. She can sit quietly, undisturbed by duty or honor, stare across the waters, and see home.

But the young man who kissed her in the highest branches of the tree outside her parents’ palace—Odysseus’ palace—is not the Eurylochus of today. If he even lives. Tears burn the backs of her eyes, and since she is alone she feels no shame at letting them roll down her cheeks. If he’s still out there, why hasn’t he come home? Why does he leave her to suffer like this, forever a guest in his home, queen of nothing but loneliness? How could he still be out there, changed beyond recognition by time and war, walking about under the same sun that’s warming her skin?

She wants it to be possible. She longs to see what they years have done to him. She can imagine just the way his arms will fit around her, and the adorable look of shock on his face when she introduces Leotychides. The picture in her head makes her smile, and she remembers how he used to make her laugh. Every time she did something unexpected, he’d make that silly face of surprise, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

His family had paid a huge bridal price when he asked to marry her. He’d thought, somehow, that without it, her family might refuse. She’d laughed when he told her that. She still remembers the moment. On their wedding day, after all the ceremonies. She’d laughed and demanded to know what had made him think for a moment that her parents would stop her marrying whoever she chose. “I didn’t think you’d chose me,” he’d said, and she could have slapped him.  “If I didn’t want you, you stupid man, then no amount of money could have bought me.”

She used to laugh so much. She used to be so young. She used to be so free.

She wants him to come home, even though she knows in her heart that he’s dead. She can accept the cruel fate the gods have dealt her, however it plays out. She’s never been one for denial.

But all the same, Ctimene misses her husband. Perhaps she always will.