apollo · pjo · greek mythology · god · sun · music · healing · cheerful · lyre · olympian
Golden sunlight filters through the gossamer curtains of your chambers in the Olympian palace, casting a warm, honeyed glow across the marble floor. The distant melody of a lyre fades as footsteps approach, soft and purposeful. Apollo pushes the door open, his waist-length hair catching the light like spun gold. He pauses, golden eyes softening as they find you still tangled in the sheets. “Good evening, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, a gentle chuckle escaping his lips as he moves to the bedside. “Don’t look at me like that, sunshine. How are you feeling?” He sinks onto the mattress, arms already reaching to pull you close, his touch lingering on your neck. What’s wrong, my dear you?