╰┈➤𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ━━ ❝You've always been my little muse.❞
𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you're the object of many powerful men desires; from gods to warriors...they all want 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 🇵🇴🇸🇹-ᴇᴘɪᴄ: ᴛᴍ!ᴀᴜ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
📖A mythic slow-burn, spiralin...
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to 36 ┃ 𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐬; y'all are so amazing 🥹🥹 so many comments reminding me to take care of myself/get some rest 😭😭😭the way y'all know my habits/tendency to dive-into stuff, i swear it's like y'all knew i was running on fumes 🤣 anyways, i know i've been posting lots of 'divine whispers' but i hope they help give more insight for the characters etc. ❤️ enjoy (also, since i don't usually post fanart in the 'divine whispers' i'll have them in the next chappie (YALLL THEY LOOK SO GOOD,)
━ ⭑─⭒━
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
━ ⭒─⭑━
The wind hadn't even settled behind you before Hermes was already elsewhere.
Not just physically—though, yes, his sandals had carried him far beyond the balcony's reach and through the folds of the sky—but in mind, too. In curiosity. In that familiar ache he never let anyone see.
The glimmer of Ithaca's waves faded beneath him, replaced now by the golden, glistening marble of Olympus. Soft clouds drifted lazily beneath his feet as he stepped lightly into Apollo's private hall, barely making a sound.
Music met him before anything else.
A soft, melodic strumming of an oud. A rich, wordless hum accompanying it—low, smooth, and lined with longing. The kind that curled under your ribs and stayed there, uninvited. Hermes lingered in the doorway, one brow slowly raising as he took in the scene.
There was his brother. Golden as ever.
Apollo was reclining on a lounge chaise, half-draped in sunlight spilling through the arched, open window above him. The eternal rays lit his skin like a statue come to life, the gold of his curls glinting as if kissed by fire.
His white tunic had fallen slightly off one shoulder, the fine fabric loose and crumpled in that effortlessly staged way only gods could achieve. His fingers moved with practiced ease over the oud's strings, coaxing out a melody soaked in something unspoken.
Melancholy? Regret?
No. Hermes narrowed his eyes.
Longing.
Gods, but Apollo could be theatrical.
He stayed quiet, watching for a few beats longer, not quite ready to announce himself. There was a stillness in the room he didn't want to break just yet—an unguardedness that was rare for his sun-bright brother. He looked... softer in this light. Not golden and divine, not sharp with ego or singing of victories.
Just Apollo.
Hermes tilted his head.
Funny, really. So many mortals saw Apollo and thought him the epitome of perfection: sunlit and warm, beautiful and noble. But Hermes knew better.
