╰┈➤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: CHANGE OF PLANS! I'm updating today cuz i'm working doubles this entire weekened for easter 💔so idk how imma feel and may not have the energy to do so,; kay see y'all soon~ here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.45 ┃ 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞;but yeah just wanted to give a lil more behind the scenes etc, just for fyi, humiliation seemed fitting them to decide what to do to him (lolol that was vague asf but once you read the entire thing and come back it makes sense lol) idk i like how i'm writing gods who feel like men, and men who think like gods. lets me think i'm staying just a tad bit true to myth.) also! for those asking, i try to upload all the fanarts I recieve in chunks etc, so if some were sent and not posted immeditely thats why! recent ones i got shall be present in the next chappie ❤️❤️thank you all they were amazing as always
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Olympus stank of roses and leftover wine.
The aftermath of a divine feast was always a mess—but this one looked more like a riot in silk.
Broken lyres leaned crooked against pillars. Fruit rolled under thrones, half-mashed into the gold-veined marble. A trail of someone's discarded sandals lay tangled with silver streamers, and one of the fountains still frothed with pomegranate wine instead of water.
Nymphs flitted through the wreckage in graceful disarray, muttering as they swept the petals off the stairs or carried out trays littered with half-eaten ambrosia and cracked goblets.
But none of them dared go near the center.
Not where he was.
Apollo lay draped across his own throne like a mourning statue—one leg hooked lazily over the armrest, the other trailing to the floor. His head lolled back against the cool gold, curls tousled like ivy. A lyre balanced across his chest, one arm stretched dramatically across his eyes as if to shield himself from the cruel world.
Light clung to him like a second skin.
Even in chaos, the sun followed him.
Soft rays filtered in through the cracked ceiling and bled across the floor, pooling beneath his throne and catching on every golden string, every edge of his laurel crown, until it looked like the very air was bowing around him. It wasn't even noon, but in this one pocket of Olympus, it glowed like dusk.
His voice—clear and golden and miserable—carried above the sweeping and clattering around him.
"She sings no longer, my darling girl, Her hands unstrung, her light now furled— Torn from me by fate so cruel, My muse, my spark, my precious jewel—"
