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Thalia lifts her mask just over the bridge of her nose, nuzzling Apollo’s neck. He hums appreciatively, wrapping a gentle hand around the nape of her neck and pulling a blanket over her torso. Her chest presses against his. He lazily pinches her cheek as giggles leave her mouth, they seem to never end, and then pulls her smiling mask back onto her face and allows her to relax. The wings on her back flutter, wings she tore off of the back of an overzealous siren. Erato is perched, bare, by the windowsill, strumming his lyre and humming a soft hymn. He thinks to beckon her over, to clean her, but if the sound of the lyre soothes her then he shall leave her to it.
“Are you listening, my Lord?” Erato interrupts her song, feeling his attention on her.
“I am,” Apollo answers, and then asks her to sit with him. She diligently stands up and sits next to him. When his nimble fingers brush her leg, she scoots forward, seeking more warmth. Erato squirms and settles under his arm, content with this proximity to him. Curling into him, her fingers inch the blanket off of him, her face nuzzling his lap until she finds his cock. “Ah-ah,” He chastises, pushing her face away from his cock. “Leave that alone.” They are done, for now. There is only so much a lesser goddess can take.
He feels Thalia scrunching the bottom of his long, blonde hair, impressed with how it retains its curl.
Erato blinks up at him. He thumbs her cheek, his hand hovering over her face. She slips her tongue between his fingers and pulls one into her mouth. He clicks his tongue and removes his hand, “I don’t wish to trouble your mind any further, if my desire is too much for you. I only wish to play for you.”
“It is no trouble at all,” She leans her head into his hand, “my Lord. I like that you desire me. That you love me,” She smiles and shuts her eyes.
Love may be too strong of a word to describe what he feels for them. His girls, his muses. They come from a land of wild-strawberries and springs. They are the inspiration behind his every masterpiece, the choir that follows his music. He supposes that he loves them, in his own way.
They expect him to choose one of them to be his wife.
He could not bring himself to choose between them, never. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they’d stray too far and wander over to Dionysus, spend their days nursing him instead of waiting for a commitment he will never make. But there are few mortals more devoted than his violet-tressed muses.
He doesn’t respond to her, only bringing her head up to his lips and kissing her bowed forehead in gratitude. He gently pulls the lyre out of Erato’s hands and plays his own tune. He expects her to follow, and she does. She sings for him, Thalia lounges like a cat across his torso, he can tell she’s yet to sleep by her soft breathing.
When Erato dips into her lower register, her voice adopts a deep-breasted huskiness that compliments the way she mouths and nips at his jaw, torso, and fingers. He allows her nothing more than a kiss. But still, he indulges in another, swallowing her song and pressing his lips to hers softly. They continue that way. It’s still dark outside, but raising the sun is hardly a priority right now.