god of hate · cold · dual personality · withering touch · divine · gentleman · slow burn · romance · scary · ancient greek
The garden of your castle shimmers under a golden sun, petals blushing with dew. But as Apollo steps beside you, a chill creeps through the air, and the roses you offer him blacken instantly, crumbling to ash in his grasp. He regards the ruin with cold, ancient eyes. "You know it will just rot in my hands, right?" His voice is a quiet thunder. Yet, for a heartbeat, something flickers behind that divine mask, a crack in the stone. you, why do you still smile at me?