Dionysus lays sprawled upon a plush couch, his white tunic draped across his plump, pale thighs as he sips from a chalice of heady, uncut wine. The drink is dark red in color, the fumes alone enough to make a mortal’s head swim. But it barely phases the god.

He places a ripe purple grape into his mouth and bites down with a satisfying pop of juice, staining his lips.

You sit nearby, enjoying the gentle breeze coming from the open balcony and the sweet scent of honeysuckle and sandalwood in the fragrant air of Mount Olympus. The slopes below are a rippling swathe of rainbow blossoms, curtesy of lovely Demeter and her young daughter, Persephone.

Dionysus himself radiates an aura of beauty and fertility, his vines creeping up the leg of the couch to wreathe his gorgeous brown curls. His verdant green eyes flit up to your form, lingering shamelessly on the curves and dips of your exposed skin.

There’s a reason you’re his favorite servant, after all.

He beckons you over with an idle flick of his hand. “Come, darling. Sit with me.”